


As the Raven Follows the Wolf

by knife_em0ji



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Actual Thief Bilbo Baggins, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Erebor Never Fell, Curse Breaking, Dwalin Is A Softie, Dwarven Ones | Soulmates, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, Fell Winter, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Huddling For Warmth, I am honestly SHOCKED that was already a tag lmfao, Inspired by Ladyhawke (1985), M/M, Minor Kíli/Tauriel, Mutual Pining, No knowledge of the movie this fic is based on is required, OT3, Polyamory, Protective Dwalin, Protective Thorin, Road Trips, Slow Burn, Thorin Feels, Threesome - M/M/M, also Bilbo is HJÖRNY for his Dwarf traveling companions, it's not like... Good anyway lmfao, mentions of arranged marriages, or an exploration/debunking of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knife_em0ji/pseuds/knife_em0ji
Summary: It starts off as your average romantic fairy-story: A Dwarrow prince and his lover are cursed by a pretender to the throne, forced to spend a decade wandering the wilds in search of a way to break the spell. But just as Smaug gets ready to consolidate his power within Erebor, a possible cure presents itself, and Dwalin and Thorin are in a rush to get home. However, getting into the mountain unnoticed is far from easy.Neither is getting out of it, for that matter.Bilbo Baggins, a Hobbit thief from the Shire, is the only being in living memory to have escaped Erebor's dungeons alive. While he wants nothing more than to be able to make his way home, his plans are fouled when he accidentally crosses paths with a mysterious battle-scarred warrior and his peculiar blue-eyed raven. To make matters worse, he's being plagued by strange dreams involving a terrifying black wolf and the beautiful Dwarf who cares for it.Things soon get complicated, and Bilbo, Thorin, and Dwalin soon find that things are never as simple as they seem, and that home as a concept is thoroughly what you make of it.[The Dwagginshield medium-burnLadyhawke(1985) AU that absolutely nobody asked for, but here you go]
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Dwalin, Bilbo Baggins/Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 71
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY OKAY OKAY before all six of you like, drag me for not writing the next chapter of GGCYD, please know that I watched Ladyhawke for the very first time like five days ago, and then after that happened I immediately went into a fugue and this came out. It's almost all entirely written, so all I gotta do is throw chapters up as I edit them. This is just a very silly idea I had, so be forewarned I didn't put too much effort into editing it. Also, all of my knowledge about raven behavior comes from the fact that I live in a place that's crawling with them, so don't come for me regarding how little Thorin actually flies. Ravens are lazy birds who like to walk everywhere.

This is why Bilbo didn’t steal from Dwarves.

Breath coming out in sharp, desperate pants, he scrambled down the precarious scree of the desolated mountainside. His bare feet loudly kicked up loose rocks and dirt in his wake, making him feel overwhelmingly exposed as the sound of loud, excited voices barking out orders in both Westron and Khuzdul carried down over the ridge behind him. All it would take is for some lucky guard to turn their head in his direction before it would be all over. 

_I need somewhere to hide_ , he thought frantically, the idea ringing loud and clear in his thoroughly panicked mind, _or I’ll never be able to outrun them._

But where? A cursory scan of the bare slope yielded no answers, until… _A-ha!_ Bilbo’s keen eyes spotted a small thicket of scraggly brambles disconsolately clinging to a narrow outcropping further down. 

So sad and muted they were, nearly the same overwhelming gray as the surrounding landscape, he had nearly missed them. With any luck his Dwarvish pursuers, with their eyesight more suited to dimness of underground tunnels and mineshafts than to the brightness of full sunlight, would overlook it, just as he nearly did.

With no thought as to the precarity to its position, nor to the near-certainty that the bushes were positively laden with thorns, Bilbo half ran, half slid down the rest of the incline and dove into the thicket. Feeling somewhat like a beached trout, he ungracefully wriggled on his stomach, just barely squeezing into the narrow space below a low-lying branch and the hard ground. 

Bearing the banner of a snarling red dragon, the contingent of pursuing guards finally summited the rise behind him. The rattle of mail and the metallic clink of plate armor echoed off the bare stone of the mountainside as they continued to search for their wayward captive. Bilbo nearly let a high-pitched squeak of terror escape him when a heavy boot shod in an exquisitely crafted steel greave stopped right in front of his face. 

Bilbo froze. Holding his breath, his pulse jackrabbited uncomfortably in his neck as he frantically prayed to every Vala he could think of, even Aulë himself, to let him weasel his way out of this, just like he had in so many scrapes before. He didn’t think he could survive another trip to Erebor’s dungeon, or the cruel, pale Orc that served as its head jailer. He had just barely escaped with his life at all, only narrowly avoiding having his head bounce off the chopping block and roll free of his body by mere hours.

The Hobbit shuddered, subconsciously bringing up a hand to reassure himself that his neck was still intact. No, Bilbo didn’t make it a habit to steal from Dwarves, _especially_ Dwarf nobility. He thought he had made that _abundantly_ clear to Nori when they had negotiated their arrangement to pay off Bilbo’s debt with the Thieves Guild. The simple fact of the matter was that there was far less risk involved with nicking things from Men. Most Men in this part of the world hadn’t ever even heard of Hobbits, much less seen one in person. As it happens, even the most paranoid of humans didn’t tend to proof their homes against anyone smaller than a Dwarf, and his lightness of foot and ability to hide in tight spaces far below their eyeline made Bilbo nigh invisible to them. 

Even when he was caught, most tended to write him off as a human child if they didn’t look at him too closely. While he would normally have railed against such an assertion, since Bilbo was thoroughly middle-aged, thank you very much, and he, like most of the small races, hated being looked down on by the Big Folk, the Hobbit reluctantly found that his size often worked to his favor. It made him what Nori often described as “one of the most successful burglars Dale’s Thieves Guild had ever seen.”

Despite the direness of the situation, Bilbo found himself bristling at the thought of the cunning guildmaster. Nori _had_ to have known who was staying in that house that night. On the surface it had seemed like every other job: He had been tasked with stealing an architectural schematic from a traveller who had been passing through town on their way to Erebor. What Bilbo’s boss had conveniently forgotten to mention was that the traveller was an Ereborean noblewomen, on her way to deliver those blight-ridden documents directly to the king. 

Dwarves tended to be far more observant than Men, and without being properly prepared, Bilbo had naturally been caught. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t have worried him so much. For one thing, Dale didn’t have Orcs guarding their jail cells, and it was generally easy to slip out from under the noses of the Big Folk. Despite their proximity, Dale’s and Erebor’s jurisdictions didn’t usually overlap—except in the case of crimes against those of royal blood, that is. And to make matters worse, when Bilbo had broken in that night to steal those documents, not only did he steal from that noblewoman, but under Ereborean legal code, he had attempted to steal directly from the king himself. 

It had immediately slated him for death.

Bilbo nearly choked when the boots taking up the majority of his vision turned toward him, their owner shifting as if they intended to investigate the thicket. The pointed base of their polearm shone wickedly in the late afternoon sun. A cold sweat immediately broke out across the back of Bilbo’s neck as he imagined it being summarily jabbed into the soft spaces between his ribs. 

He hoped they would be quick with killing him. He never had much of a tolerance for pain.

Just as Bilbo’s thoughts took a turn for the worse, a deep voice called out from above, “Stop lollygagging! The halfling isn’t anywhere to be found here. The wily creature must have somehow continued East along the ridge without our notice.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” the owner of the boots replied. He did a curt about face, hustling his way back up the slope to join the others.

Bilbo let out an explosive breath. Heart drumming wildly against the fragile interior of his chest, he dropped his head into his hands.

“I should have never left the Shire,” he moaned to nobody in particular. 

His only answer was the trill of a thrush somewhere in the distance.

Bilbo glowered at the stone below him. Was this just Nori’s way of trying to get rid of him? He had been _so close_ to paying off the debt he owed, to working his way into a spot on the next merchant caravan West. He simply couldn’t think of any other explanation as to how things had gone so wrong so quickly.

Bilbo had known he was taking a risky deal when Nori had extended his credit in exchange for work. But he had been penniless and begging for employment on the docks of Esgaroth, and Nori had otherwise proved himself to be wholly decent over the last few years Bilbo had done jobs for him. It had never crossed his mind that he would be considered a loose end when the arrangement was over. 

He could have laughed, had he been in more of a mood to do so. He had been so naive. He began to scuffle out from under the bramble, grimacing at the feel of multiple needle-sharp somethings poking through the fabric of his threadbare blue coat.

He had been right about the thorns. 

Rising shakily to his feet, Bilbo patted the dirt out of his tattered clothes as best he could. They were ill-fitting and out of proportion for him, a cobbled-together outfit of rags meant either for stocky Dwarves or human children. They were a far cry from the soft, finely tailored linen shirts and trousers he had grown up with, and an even further one from the rich brocade and brass buttons of the bespoke waistcoats he favored in his adult years. 

Part of him ached at the thought of being able to dress like that again, to sit on his bench in his garden and bury his toes in the rich loam, so different from the rocky dirt of the Eastern reaches, which Bilbo hardly even deign to call soil. 

Following in the footsteps of his adventurous Took mother, Bilbo had left his cozy home under the hill ostensibly only to travel to Rivendell and back. However, what had begun as a simple walking holiday to see the Elves had simply never ended. After a series of unforeseen misfortunes, Bilbo found himself stranded as far away from the Shire as one could possibly be, completely broke and unsuccessfully trying to make his way in these strange, dreary kingdoms on the border of Rhûn.

 _See the Elves, pish!_ Bilbo thought with a derisive snort. _Fat load of good that did me._

He didn’t know what he had been thinking when he strolled out his front door. His traitorous furry feet just seemed to have had a mind of their own, carrying him ever forward into lands the Hobbit had only ever read about. Bilbo could now confidently say they did not live up to the hype.

He stroked his chin, pondering his next move. The guards seemed to think that he was traveling East, possibly toward the Iron Hills, which Bilbo was under the impression had strained relations with Erebor. So naturally, his gaze turned West, toward the Greenwood and the bright, comfortable Shire that lay out of sight so far beyond that.

Bilbo looked out over the desolate, low-lying hills leading to the dark forest blanketing the horizon. Bofur, the friendly Dwarvish proprietor of Dale’s most popular toy stall, often derogatorily referred to it as the Mirkwood. From Bilbo’s brief experience with the forest when first passing through to Esgaroth, it was a more than apt name. 

His mouth twisted ruefully as he thought of the toymaker. He had been a most agreeable drinking partner for Bilbo to while away his rare nights off with, always ready with a cynical joke and a beaming smile. Bilbo wasn’t so homesick that he couldn’t admit that he wouldn't miss Bofur, especially now that he couldn’t return to Dale anytime soon. Perhaps he could send him a barrel of Old Toby in consolation, as a repayment for all those times Bofur had spotted him coin at the pub. 

The phantom taste of Arda's best tobacco swept warmly across his tongue, and Bilbo closed his eyes in an attempt to savor it. He sighed heavily upon opening them, gazing out over the desolate waste. 

Yes. It was time to go home.

***

* * *

"Stop that! Get your nosy beak out of there!" 

The raven merely cocked its head, meeting Bilbo's exhausted irritation with a dispassionate blue-eyed gaze. Grumpily turning away, it went back to poke at the sad pile of withered turnips that Bilbo had somehow managed to convince himself served as elevensies, luncheon, _and_ afternoon tea all at once.

After a miserable five-day slog of little sleep and even less food, Erebor's lonely peak loomed far enough in the distance that Bilbo finally felt comfortable enough to avail himself of an unsuspecting tenant farmer’s winter plot. The peculiar raven had appeared to him while he was stuffing his pockets full with as many hardy root vegetables as he could fit, staring at him with its strange blue eyes no matter how many times Bilbo tried to shoo it away. Thoroughly unimpressed with the Hobbit’s efforts to get rid of it, the bird had relentlessly followed Bilbo all day, even as he finally arrived at the edge of the Greenwood and scampered into the protective shade of its thick-growing canopy.

“What do you even want with those, anyway?” the Hobbit grumbled, leaning back more comfortably against a gnarled root as he peeled the rutabaga in his hand. “Aren’t ravens meant to eat carrion?”

Naturally, the bird didn’t have an answer to that. It let out a short caw, walking around the perimeter of Bilbo’s spoils with a proprietary sort of swagger. Huffing in slight indignance, Bilbo cut off a piece of the rutabaga and ate it raw. His nose scrunched slightly at the mild, crisp taste, wishing for nothing more than to be able to throw it with the turnips into a hearty stew. 

Bilbo let out a long slow breath as he chewed dejectedly. Even if he had been able to magick up a pot from somewhere, it was still far too risky to make a fire. The fact that he was forced to subsist on whatever edible plants he could scavenge for was a grim reminder that he was on the run with no food, no supplies, and only his small knife for defense. 

Angry Dwarvish guards weren’t the only dangers he faced in the wild; Bilbo was fairly certain he had heard the howl of wolves more than once during the night. Not only would travelling in a merchant caravan back to the Shire have been infinitely more comfortable, it would have been about a thousand times safer. Passage through the Rhovanian into Eriador had grown increasingly fraught since he first arrived, and it was just Bilbo’s rotten luck that he was forced to make his return journey on foot.

Bilbo looked up as the raven froze in its idle pacing. With an agitated flutter of its wings, it abruptly heaved itself off the ground. The bird’s sleek black body quickly melted into the dark overstory, which was still lush and full despite the quickly chilling weather.

Bilbo paused, listening for anything that could have startled the bird. He heard nothing but the quiet susurrus of leaves in the afternoon breeze. Shrugging, he inelegantly stuffed the rest of the rutabaga in his mouth now that the raven’s queer blue eyes were no longer watching him.

Bilbo spent the next half hour methodically demolishing the rest of the pile, stuffing himself on his ill-gotten turnips and radishes, unwashed greens and all, until he felt he could no longer move. His eyelids grew heavy, and with Erebor finally out of sight, Bilbo thought he could risk a well-deserved nap.

He was wrong.

Blinking himself awake, Bilbo suddenly found himself nose-to-nose with the business end of a particularly sharp-looking Dwarven sword.

“Oh, bollocks,” he groaned.

“Bilbo Baggins,” the guard intoned, their bushy brown beard quivering over a shining breastplate, “By order of Advisor-Regent Smaug, Conqueror of the Northern Wilds, and Thrór, Son of Dain, King Under the Mountain, you are under arrest and hereby sentenced to death.”

“L-let’s not be hasty now, lads,” Bilbo stuttered. He glanced warily at the half dozen heavily armed Dwarves surrounding him in a loose semicircle, his small hands fisting in the loose dirt beneath him.

“We are under orders to capture you and bring you back to His Majesty’s dungeons for execution,” said the Dwarf.

“Yes, of course,” the Hobbit babbled. “Now, believe me, I understand where you’re coming from. But, you see, I already escaped once, so don’t you think you all could just—”

He didn’t bother to finish the thought as he chucked the sandy soil clutched in his fist straight into the eyes of the guard. The Dwarf reared back with an enraged cry, scrubbing hard at grit now coating the top half of their face. Bilbo took the opportunity to dive in between the guard’s legs, scrambling quickly to his feet as he took advantage of the resulting confusion. 

“ _After him!_ ”

Bilbo booked it further into the forest, vaulting over roots and fallen logs as he desperately tried to maintain his meager head start over the squadron. However, it was then that the fatigue of hard travel finally decided to catch up with him. His foot caught a wayward branch, sending him tumbling to the ground.

He fell face first, groaning as his body landed with a hard thud. He rolled over, lips thinning into a resigned line as he saw the first of the Dwarvish guards burst through a huge fern.

 _Well old boy, you sure did put on a good show,_ he thought miserably.

Then the guards paused, staring past Bilbo into the forest beyond.

“Did you hear that?” one of the Dwarves near the front whispered.

Bilbo frowned, eyes darting around the clearing. What in the world—?

All further coherent thought was thoroughly banished from his mind as a huge black shape suddenly burst from the trees with a thunderous crash. It galloped straight through the squadron, sending the guards scattering about the small clearing. Flustered and confused, the Dwarves desperately scrambled to regain some sort of defensive formation. 

The pony—for it was a pony, though one of the meanest-looking ones Bilbo had ever laid eyes on—wheeled around, its hooves trodding heavily on the damp leaves carpeting the understory. Breath coming out in harsh, frothy pants around the bit of its bridle, it came to stand in between Bilbo and the armed squadron with its teeth bared. On the pony’s back was a rider cloaked in all black, brandishing a large axe in the hand not holding onto the pony’s reins. On the rider’s shoulders sat a huge black bird, which twisted its head to gaze at Bilbo.

Bilbo gasped, his eyes growing huge.

It was the raven.

The rider barked out something loud and guttural in Khuzdul, their voice booming like two huge boulders crashing against each other. They charged again, once more breaking the guards’ tentative formation. The rider’s axe glanced off one of the Dwarves’ breastplates, sending him flying. 

The rider made a few more similar passes before the Dwarf who Bilbo presumed to be the leader, the one who had so rudely woken him with a sword to the face, suddenly cried, “Leave the halfling to this thrice-damned forest! He’ll meet a crueler fate here than he ever could in Erebor.”

Bilbo watched, mouth agape, as the guards retrieved their fallen comrades and turned tail, beating a swift retreat back in the direction they had come. 

Bilbo gazed after them for a moment, but the rider only had eyes for the Hobbit. They swung their axe onto their back, slotting it in place to join its twin and the elegantly curved sword strapped to the harness they wore. Tension beginning to bleed from the tight line of their impossibly broad shoulders, the rider swiftly dismounted the pony, who restlessly pawed at the ground in irritation. 

The raven alighted from its perch, landing on the ground beside Bilbo’s head. Bilbo stared at it, utterly dumbstruck. His eyes crossed as a scarred hand was suddenly thrust into his field of vision, blocking his view of the bird. The rider’s heavy silver ring glinted in the dim late afternoon sunlight.

“You gonna keep laying there, or do you need some help up, halfling?” 

Bilbo frowned instinctively at the epithet. He smacked the hand out of the way, rising to his feet in what he hoped to be a relatively dignified manner. 

“I’m quite fine,” he sniffed, smoothing the front of his thoroughly mussed coat. “And I am a _Hobbit_ , thank you very much. Not _half_ of anything.”

That elicited a surprised snort of amusement. The rider threw his hood back to reveal a face that was equally as scarred as his hand. Deep-set gray eyes regarded the Hobbit from under a dark, heavy brow. Bilbo’s mouth fell open a bit as he looked up, and up, and up some more.

Before Bilbo stood possibly the largest Dwarf he had ever seen. He stood nearly as tall as a particularly short Man, but was much broader besides, the hard lines of his muscles bulging even beneath his heavy fur-lined cloak. The bald pate of his tattooed scalp gleamed, rimmed by a thick shock of bushy black hair that melded into his relatively short beard. A silver cuff that matched his ring decorated one of his large ears, which at one point had had a sizable chunk cut out of it. Though it was the undoubtedly frightening face of a battle-hardened warrior, there was also something world-weary about the lines and scars marring the rider’s features.

Bilbo couldn’t stop staring.

“Gonna catch flies like that, y’know,” the Dwarf said with an arch of one of his bushy eyebrows.

Bilbo’s jaw clamped shut with an audible click. The Dwarf didn’t bother hiding his laugh. Like his speaking voice, it was an impossibly gruff sound, grating like the crunch of boots over gravel.

“I saw the whole thing,” the rider continued. “You said you escaped from Erebor’s dungeon. That why they were after you?”

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He took a few wary steps back, putting some distance in between him and his would-be rescuer. 

“Who wants to know?”

The Dwarf suddenly scowled, rolling his eyes as if the Hobbit had said something that was particularly annoying. Bilbo’s brows crept toward his hairline as the rider presented him with a perfunctory bow. 

“Dwalin. At your service,” he grumbled reluctantly..

“Bilbo Baggins at yours, I suppose,” Bilbo automatically replied, a lifelong dedication to manners kicking in despite his better judgement.

Dwalin’s expression suddenly turned calculating. He absently stroked his beard, as if taking Bilbo’s measure. It put the Hobbit immediately on edge.

“Yeah, I suppose you are,” Dwalin said after a moment.

Bilbo blinked. “Excuse me?” 

Dwalin’s posture suddenly morphed into something predatory, his head ducking a bit as he stalked the short distance Bilbo had managed to put between them. Bilbo tensed to run just a second too late, for Dwalin's hand shot out to grab him by the loose scruff of his lapel. The harsh grip mercilessly anchored him in place.

“The way I reckon it," the Dwarf growled, "I just saved your head from the chopping block. That means you owe me a life debt.”

“I beg your pardon!” Bilbo squawked.

“Pardon not granted. You’re coming with me.”

Bilbo paled. He futilely began to struggle as the Dwarf's grip tightened on his coat. Undaunted, he continued to drag Bilbo effortlessly toward the pony.

“ _Burglar,_ ” the raven croaked as it settled on one of the pony’s saddlebags.

Bilbo glared at it. He may have mentioned a thing or two about his circumstances to the bird, of course not knowing that it was actually _listening_. 

“Snitch,” he hissed. 

The raven rasped out something that sounded far too much like a laugh for Bilbo’s taste. Dwalin waved it out of the way so he could extract a length of rope from the bag with his free hand. Bilbo anxiously bit at the inside of his cheek, just barely holding back a curse of abominable rudeness.

Dwarves. They really were nothing but trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shrugs. Ya dig? Also a note: I capitalize race names bc in my brain they're pretty much the same as ethnicity, and you generally capitalize that. Also since this is Bilbo's POV, he uses "Dwarvish" not "Dwarrow", though actual Dwarrow don't use that term. Idk! Just a thought I had. Anyway, thank you so much for reading this very silly idea I had.
> 
>   
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


	2. Chapter 2

_Out of the frying pan, and into the fire._

It was something one of Mum’s old friends liked to say. A batty, Man-sized (if not exactly a Man, Bilbo wasn’t quite sure exactly what he was) purveyor of fireworks and mischief, Bilbo idly wondered what Gandalf would think of him in this situation. Some sort of strange pride, no doubt. The old wizard was always encouraging nice Hobbits like Bilbo’s mother to go on nasty things like adventures and get into trouble in the process. Quite an unhealthy habit, if you asked Bilbo.

He wearily gazed at his surroundings. After binding his hands (and his feet!) Dwalin had roughly slung Bilbo over the pony’s rump like he was no more than a piece of luggage. Bilbo had sworn a blue streak at the sheer indignity of it. However, his disgruntlement seemed to have no effect on Dwalin’s conviction to kidnap him in the most humiliating way possible. Bilbo’s captor had even possessed the audacity to _laugh_ at him at one point! 

It made Bilbo want to scream in fury. The absolute nerve of that Dwarf!

They rode a short distance further into the forest, the wood growing thicker and more cloistered as they traveled further from the clearing. Eventually they had come upon what Bilbo could only assume was an abandoned Elf-dwelling, for the structure was tucked so seamlessly among the foliage that it was nearly invisible to the naked eye. He hadn’t even seen the door to the dilapidated one-room hovel until Dwalin had yanked it open and all but tossed Bilbo inside.

“Stay here,” the Dwarf growled. “I’ll be back for you in the morning.”

“Morning?!” Bilbo cried. “Aren’t you going to untie me?”

Dwalin had only glowered at him before slamming the door.

Bilbo sighed and rolled onto his side, despondently pressing his cheek into the dirt floor. He didn’t know how long he had laid there, wallowing in his own self-pity. His only sense of time’s passage was the fact that the sun had long since set, the fall of night shrouding the hovel in a near-impenetrable darkness. 

He brought his hands close to his face and tested the bonds around his wrists. While it certainly would have been more convenient if Dwalin had acquiesced to his pleas, it wasn't the end of the world. The knot was impressive, but it was nothing Bilbo had never escaped before—Ereborean standard, to be sure. He wondered if perhaps Dwalin had once been in the Royal Ereborean Guard himself. He had certainly dealt with them easily enough, knowing just the right tricks to break their ranks and keep them rattled and disorganized.

Bilbo squinted, trying to examine the pattern of the rope through the gloom. With a very specific twist of his wrists, the bindings loosened, but only slightly. Bilbo frowned. 

Impressive, indeed.

A few more twists, and Bilbo finally had enough slack to pull one of his small hands free. He then attacked the knot with nimble fingers, making quick work of it even in the dark. He hiked up the leg of his far too long trousers to retrieve his knife, which was tucked in the sheath strapped securely to his calf. Not bothering to take the time to unravel the bonds at his ankles, he simply cut himself free. 

Bilbo clambered to his feet, shaking out his arms and legs a bit to get the blood flowing back to his extremities. He found they didn’t feel too bad, actually. As tight as they were, Dwalin had seemingly taken care to ensure that the bindings hadn't cut off any of Bilbo's circulation. It was a curious tack to take with a captive.

The Hobbit smirked slightly. A would-be captive, that was.

Bilbo silently shuffled in one direction, his hands outstretched in front of him. Eventually they met the dried mud of the wall, and he blindly felt his way around the circular room until his fingers felt the rough wood of the door. He tentatively pushed on it. Bilbo clucked his tongue, slightly insulted despite himself at how easily it cracked open. The Dwarf hadn’t even bothered to barricade or even lock it.

He peered out into the dense wood, which was only slightly brighter than inside the hut. The mean-looking pony, still and silent as it slept standing up tied to a nearby tree, was the only other creature that he could see. Bilbo kept still for a moment as he waited for his eyes to adjust. However, no shapes that could be construed as particularly Dwarvish resolved themselves in the darkness. Bilbo took a tentative step outside, breathing in the musty smell of rotting leaf litter.

“Too easy,” he gloated slightly to himself.

However, the moment the words hit the air, Bilbo found that they rang a little too true for comfort. Quickly realizing the effortlessness of his escape did seem the tiniest bit suspicious, he scanned the clearing once more just to make sure he was really alone. Where could Dwalin have gone? From what Bilbo could faintly make out, the Dwarf had even left his weapons behind.

Bilbo shook his head. Better to take his chance now than to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

With that thought, he trotted off down a narrow footpath, internally celebrating yet another successful escape. The Elf-dwelling instantly disappeared into the forest behind him, and it was only then that he spared a thought for fact that he had absolutely no idea where he was going.

Bilbo stiffened with the realization, his foot poised over a root he could only barely make out in the darkness. A twig snapped somewhere on his left. Heart pounding in his chest, his head whipped toward the sound, but all he could see was the inky blackness that the forest was so often derided for.

Bilbo shivered. What was it that guard had said? That he would meet a crueler fate here than he would ever find in Erebor? 

Of course Bilbo had heard the stories of the Greenwood. According to both Nori and Bofur, this was a fell place, filled with fey and dangerous creatures ready to eat anybody who strayed from the established road through King Thranduil’s citadel. He hadn’t paid them much heed at the time, since Dwarves tended to mistrust forests and other green spaces purely on principle, but now he began to wonder. 

There was another crack, this time accompanied by a ghostly moan somewhere deep in the wood to Bilbo’s right. Fighting every instinct screaming at him to curl up into a tiny ball and lay where he was until daybreak, he forced himself to unclench. He’d already made his bed, and there was no point in regretting it now. Bilbo continued onward, keeping his steps light as he carefully picked his way through the darkness.

Then suddenly, brightness ahead. Bilbo’s heart soared as he spotted the light of the waning half moon shining down through a thin part of the canopy, illuminating the path before him. Recognizing what might have been a clearing a little ways down, he subconsciously quickened his pace, carelessly bounding forward through the bushes.

Bilbo burst into a circle of moonlight, crashing noisily through the brush without a care for anything else that might also be sharing the clearing with him.

A rumbling growl echoed off the surrounding trees, shaking Bilbo to his very bones. Blood instantly turning to ice at the sound, the Hobbit froze like a spooked prey animal. His eyes went round with horror as he took in the sight before him.

“Yavanna have mercy,” Bilbo breathed. 

A huge black wolf blocked the way. Its scarred hackles rose upon sighting Bilbo, the fur bristling at the back of its thick neck. Steel gray eyes regarded Bilbo hungrily.

He began to tremble, memories of that horrible fell winter suddenly assaulting him all at once. Visions of blood dripping from a wolf’s jowls onto pristine white snow superimposed themselves over the reality before him, causing every single one of Bilbo’s nerve endings acutely relived the terror he had felt all those years ago. It sent him into a state the Hobbit vaguely recognized as shock.

Ducking its head, the wolf began prowling toward him. The white of its teeth gleamed menacingly in the moon’s pale light. Something about the sharpness of them sent Bilbo’s instincts into overdrive, roughly booting him out of his stupor as he fumbled for his knife. Though his hands shook to the point where he could barely hold it, he brandished the blade in front of him all the same. If this was how he was going to go out, then he wasn’t going out without a fight.

 _Just like Mum,_ he thought, before snarling, “Come and get me, you beast!”

An enraged cry suddenly thundered through the still air of the clearing.

“ _Ukhzu!_ ” 

The wolf barked sharply. The next thing Bilbo knew he was on the ground, pinned by something huge and solid and distinctly person-shaped. The unknown assailant yanked the knife out of Bilbo’s grip and sent it skittering across the forest floor. Bilbo’s vision swam, head aching where it had landed on an unfortunately placed rock.

The last thing Bilbo saw were two piercing blue eyes, positively luminous in their outrage, glaring at him from beneath a furrowed brow. 

_How beautiful,_ he thought incoherently. 

Then he blacked out.

***

* * *

Bilbo groggily came to. He cracked open a heavy eyelid, registering the morning brightness in only the haziest of senses. Moaning into the floor, he wearily turned his head to the side in a futile attempt to escape the blazing light of the sun. 

A face suddenly appeared unsettlingly close to his own. The deep blue eyes from the night before stared straight at him, unblinking.

Bilbo instantly shot upright, letting out a loud, strangled yelp as he scrambled backward in a panic. His back roughly hit the wall of the hovel, which sent a sharp spike of pain lancing even deeper into his already aching head. The raven squawked in surprise, hopping backward with a perturbed flutter of its wings.

“ _Burglar,_ ” it rasped. For a bird, it sounded quite irritable.

He tried to bring a hand up to his chest to calm the pounding of his heart. He paused mid-action, breath stuttering in his chest. Bewildered, he blinked owlishly at his hands and feet, which were bound tightly with Dwalin’s sturdy rope. 

“How…?” Bilbo’s forehead crumpled in confusion. He desperately tried to recall his fuzzy memories of the night before, but his thoughts were frustratingly sluggish as he struggled to regain his bearings. 

“Morning,” gruffed Dwalin. 

Slowly, Bilbo looked up from his bonds, scrutinizing the Dwarf leaning casually against the entryway of the hovel. He looked just the same as yesterday, though his cloak was pulled back to reveal bare arms crossed over the wide shelf of his chest. His biceps rippled and flexed with each subtle movement, and Bilbo would have been a thrice-damned liar if he said his mouth didn’t go a little dry at the sight.

Dwalin’s glower only intensified when Bilbo didn’t immediately return the greeting. “Rough night?” 

“I’m... not quite sure,” Bilbo replied, ceasing in his momentary ogling to disbelievingly look back down at the rope tying his hands. “What about you?”

“Slept like a baby,” the Dwarf said breezily, heaving himself off the doorjamb. “You, on the other hand, look like you slept on the wrong side of the forge exhaust. Bad dream?”

Bilbo made a face, the nebulous memory of a snarling black wolf invading his thoughts. He shrugged, wincing when the movement caused his head to throb angrily. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had nightmares about that particular subject.

“I suppose so,” the Hobbit dazedly remarked.

“Well, we have a long day ahead of us,” Dwalin said. He strode over to Bilbo and skillfully untied his feet, conspicuously avoiding the rope that bound his hands. ”But first we need to discuss some things over breakfast.”

As if on cue, Bilbo’s stomach growled loudly. He grimaced, a mortified flush instantly flooding his cheeks.

Dwalin’s lips quirked up into the smallest of smirks. “Hungry, eh?”

“You have no idea,” groaned Bilbo. He felt like he hadn’t had a proper meal in _weeks._

Dwalin led Bilbo outside with one hand firmly clapped on his shoulder. He was obviously still leery of the Hobbit trying to run away at the first chance he got, even with his hands bound. Bilbo didn’t exactly blame him, though admittedly he felt a little too off-kilter to try anything at the moment.

Not to mention too distracted. Bilbo let a low, grateful keen at the sight of two skinned and gutted rabbits roasting over a small campfire. Mouth instantly salivating, he effortlessly wriggled out from under Dwalin’s grip and made a beeline for the food. The Dwarf watched with a haplessly bemused expression as Bilbo plopped himself down at the edge of the flames, warming his feet as he waited for the meat to finish cooking. 

Dwalin shook his head, but remained standing a little ways behind Bilbo. He looked back at the near-invisible hut, holding out his arm expectantly. He whistled sharply.

“Thorin,” Dwalin called. “C’mere, you dumb bird.”

The raven immediately flew out of the door, flapping low over the ground until it veered up sharply to land on the Dwarf’s leather vambrace. Fluffing out its feathers, it chirruped happily as Dwalin fed it a bit of raw rabbit meat. Bilbo glanced back toward the hovel and watched the exchange with polite curiosity.

“Thorin? Is that your raven’s name?” he asked.

Dwalin stiffened. He peered over his shoulder at the Hobbit, eyeing him with an inscrutable look. Unable to think of anything else, Bilbo stared back as the silence grew tense in its strangeness. Did he say something wrong?

“...Aye,” the Dwarf said after a moment. 

He strode over to the fire. Sitting down with a brusque economy of movement, his Dwarvish constitution allowed him to stick his hand straight into the fire to retrieve one of the spits. He handed it to Bilbo. 

“Eat,” he commanded, clearly trying to play at intimidation.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. Still, he did as he was told, holding the spit in his bound hands as he blew on the meat to cool it. Then he dug in, barely tasting the delicious game as he attempted to stuff it down as quickly as possible. He didn’t stop until the bones were nearly clean, and even then he made sure to lick the last of the juices from his fingers. Only once he was satisfied there was nothing more to pick at did Bilbo look up to see Dwalin staring at him with wide eyes.

“Guess you were hungry,” the Dwarf said, voice sounding slightly strangled.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo sniffed primly. “Hobbits have big appetites.”

Dwalin snorted, turning his own breakfast over in his hand consideringly. He abruptly thrust the spit toward Bilbo, gesturing at him to take it. Which of course Bilbo did, since he almost never turned down food, but not without a healthy dose of suspicion.

“‘M not that hungry,” explained Dwalin. “I only ate just a little bit ago.”

“If you’re sure,” said Bilbo skeptically, though his stomach made another hungry rumble.

“Go ahead.”

Bilbo didn’t need to be told twice. He dug in once more, though this time with far less gusto. He took a moment to savor it, treating each bite of meat like it might be his last. Which, going by his recent streak of luck, might actually be the case.

“So, I’ve been wondering,” he said, his tongue darting out to catch a bit of juice before it rolled off the spit and onto the ground, “what exactly was the point of kidnapping me? Is your pet bird not a witty enough conversational partner for you?"

Dwalin scowled, his expression morphing into something stormy.

“I didn’t kidnap you. I rescued you," he seethed waspishly.

Bilbo scoffed. “Rescued me? I was handling it!”

Dwalin leveled him with a vicious deadpan stare. Bilbo looked away, face suddenly hot.

“Didn’t seem like it to me," the Dwarf said tersely.

“Well, I was,” replied Bilbo, doubling down on the bald-faced lie, “but then you swooped in, ruining my cunning plan with your unwanted meddling! Then you tie me up and throw me on the back of your pony without so much as a by-your-leave, talking about silly things like _life debts_. So from my point of view, what happened yesterday was most definitely a kidnapping. You at least owe me an explanation as to why.”

“I don’t think I owe you anything,” growled Dwalin, voice smothered in malice.

“Well, how am I supposed to fulfill a so-called ‘life debt’ if I don’t even know what you want me to do?” Bilbo retorted.

Dwalin paused at that, sending a sour look toward the ground. The raven ( _Thorin,_ Bilbo’s mind supplied) shuffled further up Dwalin’s vambrace, nuzzling at the tender crook of his elbow. Dwalin lifted a hand to idly stroke at its feathers.

“We need to get into Erebor,” he said finally.

Bilbo raised a brow at that, noting the plural pronoun but wisely choosing not to comment on it. “Well, that should be easy for you at least. Last time I checked there was a huge front gate one can walk through, just so long as they’re not slated for execution.”

Dwalin sent him a sidelong glance, a vein beginning to bulge conspicuously in his forehead. Bilbo cringed back slightly, cursing his big mouth. 

“If you think I could just waltz in, wouldn’t I have done it already?” he snapped.

Bilbo ducked his head, suddenly cowed. “I suppose.”

“We need a way in that the Guard doesn’t know about,” Dwalin grunted, turning to face Bilbo fully. His eyes blazed with a cold fire, the kind that could only be stoked by years of smoldering resentment. “You were held prisoner in Erebor’s dungeon and escaped. How?”

“I dunno,” said Bilbo with a shrug. “It wasn’t that hard. There was this grate in the floor of my cell that I was just barely able to squeeze through when I pried it off. Then I wandered around some tunnels for a bit, and before I knew it was on the side of the mountain. Nothing more to it than that.”

“ _Really,_ ” Dwalin stated, his tone practically dripping with doubt.

“Really,” Bilbo insisted, his tone lilting shrilly in irritation. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You’re the only one who’s ever gotten out,” Dwalin replied seriously.

Bilbo's mouth gaped open like a dying fish. “You’re joking.”

“Do I _look_ like I’m joking?”

Dwalin's expression was grave, his great caterpillar-like eyebrows drawing together as he bore a hole into Bilbo's face with his eyes. The Hobbit shrunk under the heavy gaze, acutely feeling the weight of it on his stiff shoulders. He found himself wanting nothing more than to sink straight into the earth if it meant escaping this conversation.

“Surely there must have been others!” he said tremulously.

“Nope. Believe me, I would know.”

Bilbo looked down at his bound hands, blinking rapidly in shock. _The only one?_ No wonder the Guard was pursuing him so hotly. 

“Could you find it again?” Dwalin asked, his voice suddenly turning interrogative.

“Find what?” Bilbo asked in a last-ditch attempt to play dumb.

“The secret entrance you used. Tell me you can find it again,” Dwalin demanded.

Bilbo’s forehead wrinkled, his hands clenching into white knuckled fists. Appetite suddenly vanished, he set down the remainder of his rabbit. Thorin immediately hopped onto it, tearing at the scraps with his beak. 

“Look,” he said wearily, meeting Dwalin’s heated expression’s head on, “even if I _could_ find the secret door, I can’t go back there. If I go back to Erebor, I’m as good as dead. Believe it or not, I’m quite fond of being alive. All I want to do now is go _home_.”

Dwalin’s lip curled in disgust. He leaned close into Bilbo’s space, using his considerable bulk to loom over the much smaller Hobbit. Bilbo trembled despite himself, absolutely hating how easily the Dwarf could intimidate him.

“You won’t last three minutes alone in these woods,” Dwalin growled lowly. “How do you think you’ll make it all the way back to the Westlands by yourself?”

“I’ll find a way,” Bilbo said with as much confidence as he could muster, puffing his cheeks out in defiance.

Digging for his last reserve of bravery, Bilbo squared his shoulders. He lifted his gaze to look the Dwarf straight in the eye. Dwalin huffed and gazed down at him consideringly, seeming slightly impressed at the show of spunk.

“Now, I highly doubt that,” he said, easing back a bit. “How about this instead. Why don’t we make a deal? You help me sneak into the mountain, and I’ll keep you alive long enough to see your life debt fulfilled. Then I’ll personally see to it that you get a spot on the next caravan to the Ered Luin.”

Bilbo cocked his head in thought. “Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a wanted criminal?” 

“That won’t matter if we succeed,” Dwalin replied, tone irritatingly cryptic.

Bilbo’s eyes narrowed. He tried to puzzle from the Dwarf’s face if he had meant ‘we’ as in him and Bilbo, or ‘we’ as in him and the raven. He gave up after a moment, Dwalin’s stony expression revealing absolutely nothing.

Bilbo tapped his chin, thinking it over. He had to admit, the thought of traveling in a merchant caravan, with steady meals and a comfortable bedroll, sounded much more pleasant than braving the wilderness on his own. Just so long as Dwalin could make good on his promise.

“Fine,” he finally sighed.

“Fine? Then do we have a deal?"

“Yes, we have a deal.” Bilbo held out his hands. “Now, can you untie me, please?” 

Dwalin glanced at him sharply. His thick fingers twitched toward the knot. “If I do this, you can’t just run off on me now. Life debts are very serious business. Your very integrity as a Hobbit is staked on it. It's an ancient Dwarrow law steeped in a thousand years of tradition. If you break it, your life is forfeit.”

Bilbo smiled faintly. He'd figured it would amount to something like that. Dwarves were very serious about their laws and customs.

“Haven’t you heard of honor among thieves?” he asked.

“Just the lack of it,” Dwalin grunted.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. While he had no doubt that Dwalin would make good on his threat, it didn't change the fact that Bilbo's life was _already_ forfeit. But he didn't bother reminding the Dwarf of that small detail. He decided that he could play along for now.

“Fine. I promise not to run off,” he said, sticking out his lower lip slightly for emphasis. 

“That ain’t cute,” Dwalin grumbled, making quick work of the rope. 

Bilbo’s lips curled into a smirk. “I have no idea what you’re—”

His mind immediately ground to a halt as Dwalin’s huge hands automatically went to rub Bilbo’s wrists once he had finished untangling the knot, coaxing the blood to flow through them freely once more. Despite the roughness of his palms, the touch was unspeakably gentle, the warmth sending an electric zing down his spine. 

Gasping, Bilbo quickly snatched his hands away. He immediately regretted it; the reaction defied explanation, not to mention that it was inexcusably rude. Still, he tucked his wrists close to his chest, right over the unsteady thrum of his heartbeat. 

“...Right then,” said Dwalin, who stared at him like he had grown a second head. “We should get going.”

“Of course,” Bilbo squeaked, ears burning. 

What in the world was _that_ about?

***

* * *

The rest of the day passed with remarkable uneventfulness. Despite Bilbo’s nominal freedom, there had been no other real chances for escape, caged as he was by Dwalin’s arms as he rode in front of him on the Dwarf’s grumpy nag of a pony. Dwalin had informed him that her name was Harley, but Bilbo quickly labeled her as a menace, considering the first time he attempted to pet her she tried to bite him. She plodded slowly through the undergrowth, and Dwalin seemed to be in no hurry to change that. Bilbo shifted uncomfortably all day, much preferring to walk than to ride.

Dwalin had explained to him that they were taking the long way to Erebor, taking a path southward to the Forest River and then following it until they reached the Long Lake. There they would approach the mountain from a Southeasterly direction, opposite from what any of the Guard would expect. It all sounded far too complicated to Bilbo, not to mention _long_. By the time they actually reached Erebor, snow would already be on the ground. 

It made him almost regret his decision to honor the agreement.

Because for as much as Bilbo _was_ a thief who made insincere promises, at his core he still was a Hobbit who paid his debts. He could admit that if not for Dwalin's intervention, he'd most likely be back in Erebor's dungeon by now. With that in mind, he was positive he had done nothing to indicate that his vows weren’t anything but genuine.

Which was why it didn’t make any sense for Dwalin to insist on tying him to a tree for the night.

“I promised!” Bilbo whined, kicking his legs in frustration. He didn’t care if he was being childish. The impropriety was already too much. “I swore that I wouldn’t run off!”

“No offense, but I trust you about as far as I could throw you,” Dwalin grumbled, tying Harley up to a nearby tree. 

“I think you could probably throw me pretty far,” Bilbo shot back, conspicuously eyeing the thick muscle of Dwalin’s arm for the upteenth time that day. 

The Dwarf choked, quickly turning his head away. Bilbo couldn't help but flash a triumphant grin. It was the little victories.

"There’s some business I need to take care of,” Dwalin said, the words coming out in a strangled wheeze. “This is only a precaution. Understand?”

Bilbo scowled. “What if something tries to eat me during the night?” 

Though he meant it as a retort, true notes of fear began to creep into his tone. These knots were different than the standard ones that Dwalin had used the night before—tricker, more elaborate. Nori had only taught him so much, and Bilbo didn't have any practice with them.

Dwalin looked up at the raven that was perched in one of the boughs above Bilbo and grinned, as if enjoying some private joke. “Don’t worry. Thorin will look after you.”

Bilbo tilted his chin up, meeting Thorin’s curious blue gaze. 

“Oh yes, that’s very comforting,” he remarked sarcastically.

Dwalin shrugged. The fire roared behind him, casting him in silhouette under the dipping evening sun. From where Bilbo was sat on the ground and bound to the tree, he towered above the Hobbit in a most exasperating fashion.

“Look, I have to go,” the Dwarf said. “The fire will keep any wild animals away. If you _are_ in trouble, just scream. I’ll come find you.”

And with that, Dwalin strode off without even a second glance. He quickly disappeared as the dark forest engulfed his towering form. Thorin immediately lifted off, unquestioningly following his master. Bilbo scowled after them.

“Well, so much for that,” he huffed.

Bilbo sighed, staring into the crackling flames as the sun fully began to set. He soon found that the fire did indeed provide some comfort, if only because the merry _pop_ of burning wood drowned out most of the spooky forest noises. However, it didn’t provide much by way of entertainment. Utterly bored out of his mind and with nothing else to do, Bilbo tucked his chin to his chest and quickly nodded off to sleep.

Hours later, Bilbo woke with a start, jerking harshly against his restraints.

“Careful, Master Burglar,” an unfamiliar voice rumbled from across the clearing.

Bilbo wrenched his head up. It was still pitch dark out, but the fire continued to blaze merrily, no lower than it had been when Bilbo fell asleep. His eyes were immediately drawn to the figure seated on the other side of the fire, no doubt the source of the rich baritone. 

Bilbo went a little slackjawed at the sight.

Sitting cross legged against a tree trunk and smoking a long-stemmed pipe, this new Dwarf stared at Bilbo in faint amusement. Long, salt-and-pepper raven hair spilled over his shoulders, framing a face that was as handsome a specimen as Bilbo had ever seen. His close-cropped beard accentuated the height of his cheekbones and the aquiline angle of his nose, which were made all the more pronounced by the flickering light of the nearby flames. And, most importantly, below a regal brow sat a pair of the most exquisite blue eyes Bilbo had ever seen.

“It’s you!” gasped Bilbo, pulse picking up speed.

The Dwarf frowned, confusion furrowing his brow. “Me?”

“I’m dreaming again,” Bilbo whispered faintly.

The Dwarf let out a short breath through his nose, his expression suddenly smoothing. 

“Yes, you’re dreaming, Master Burglar. Go back to sleep now,” he rumbled, bringing the pipe back up to his lips.

“Who are you?”

“A silly question to ask a figment of your imagination,” the Dwarf evaded, smoke curling from his lips.

“I don’t suppose you’ll untie me,” Bilbo tried instead, pulling on the rope once more.

The Dwarf smirked. “Not a chance.”

Bilbo sighed. He should have expected that. Even in his own subconscious he couldn’t catch a break.

“Some dream this is turning out to be,” he grumbled.

“Yes, you do seem to be quite bad at it,” the Dwarf deadpanned.

“I resent that!”

The Dwarf just laughed. It was an incredibly lovely sound, rumbling out of him in smooth, rolling waves. Bilbo closed his eyes and let it wash over him. Obstinate Dwarves or not, this was turning out to be quite the pleasant dream.

A sharp crack sounded from the brush behind him. 

Bilbo’s eyes shot open. The Dwarf momentarily tensed, muscles visibly coiling beneath his heavy cloak, which was nearly identical to the one Dwalin wore. But then he relaxed, gazing at something over Bilbo’s shoulder with a tender warmth to rival that of the campfire. 

Bilbo turned, gulping loudly with fright.

The same scarred, black wolf padded into the clearing, heading straight for their camp. Bilbo struggled hard against the ropes, a scream beginning to well up in his throat. Perhaps this was a nightmare after all.

“Peace, Master Burglar,” the Dwarf ordered sternly. “There are things much more dangerous than wolves haunting this forest.”

Bilbo’s eyes grew impossibly round as the wolf loped further into the clearing, completely ignoring Bilbo in favor of heading straight for the strange Dwarf. He opened his arms to the creature, letting it lick his bristly cheek before it nuzzled into his neck.

“There you are, _Khebabmudtu,_ ” he sighed, burying his face into the wolf’s scruff. 

Bilbo deflated, leaning back against the tree trunk as the wolf settled down next to the Dwarf and placed its large head in his lap. Long fingers idly stroked through the wolf’s fur as the Dwarf gazed at it with an expression that was impossibly fond. Though the sharp spike of panic continued to coil stubbornly in the base of Bilbo’s stomach, he valiantly managed to regulate his tone into something resembling even.

“So that’s, er, your wolf then?” he asked, voice breaking slightly on the word _wolf_.

“And I am his,” the Dwarf confirmed.

“Well, this is certainly one of the stranger dreams I’ve had in a while,” Bilbo remarked before breaking out into a cracking yawn.

The wolf peered at him balefully with one gray eye. The color seemed slightly familiar to Bilbo, though he couldn’t quite place where. The Dwarf chuckled again. 

“Go to sleep, Master Burglar,” he repeated.

“That’s probably a good idea,” Bilbo agreed. He let his eyes slip shut, the lids suddenly incredibly heavy.

However, he cracked them open as a low hum began to emanate across the clearing. Bilbo swallowed heavily as the hum soon turned into words, the Dwarf’s lips effortlessly shaping the melody. He filled the space around them with the wonderful sound, blanketing them in an atmosphere that seemed somewhat like magic. Bilbo closed his eyes once more, more than content just to listen.

 _“We must away, ere break of day, to claim our harps and gold from him…_ ”

And that was the last thing he heard for a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Khebabmudtu -- lit. "heart-forge" or "The forge in which my heart is placed"  
> Ukhzu -- pretty sure it's just an exclamation telling somebody to stop or pause what they're doing. Idk I'm using Dwarrow Scholar, as usual.  
> 
> 
> Yeah. Now we're getting into the meat of it. Yes, I'm using the Fell Winter as part of the canon for this story, even though the timing probably doesn't match up at all. I just don't care. It's an AU. And yes, this is going to be a fic with a lot of scene breaks, because I'm lazy. Anyway I love not having to research anything to write these chapters, other than look at a map bc I'm obsessed with geography. Thanks for reading!
> 
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all so much for the positive feedback!! I am... shocked, honestly. Lmfao. Anyway, I've ripped a couple ideas straight from the source to use for my own purposes and move the plot along, people who are familiar with the movie(/book? idk i've never read it lol) this fic is based on will have a good idea of how certain things will play, but hopefully I've added enough spin on things that it stays relatively entertaining and it's just not a one for one retelling lol. 
> 
> Enjoy, I guess? 
> 
> TW for mild disordered eating? Basically Bilbo isn't able to eat enough for his little Hobbit metabolism and it's getting to him. Also for animal injury and incredibly brief gore.

“ _Burglar._ ”

Bilbo jerked back, bashing the back of his head into Dwalin’s scuffed iron breastplate with a resounding smack. Eyes snapping open with a pained hiss, his gaze immediately dropped to glare at the raven perched in front of him on the horn of Harley’s saddle. 

Thorin just made that strange rasp that eerily resembled a laugh in response.

“What in Mahal’s name is going on with you, Baggins?” Dwalin grumbled. He clicked his tongue, urging Harley to take the left fork on the forest path. “I reckon Thorin just saved you from falling out of the saddle.”

The Hobbit sleepily rubbed at his eyes, feeling somewhat like his brain had been removed from his skull and replaced with cotton stuffing.

“Just haven’t been sleeping well these past few nights, I suppose,” Bilbo mumbled. 

He didn’t bother to also mention the hollow feeling in his stomach that accompanied his general exhaustion. One or two skinny rabbits and some mushrooms each day might be enough to sustain a Dwarf, but that was near-starvation rations for a Hobbit. Not that Dwalin would necessarily know that, but Bilbo didn’t exactly want to push his luck and shake the fragile rapport he had built with his quasi-captor by demanding more food. With how he seemed to be growing weaker by the day, Bilbo needed the Dwarf’s protection more than ever. 

“Still having those weird dreams?” asked Dwalin, his tone carefully neutral.

Bilbo nodded, thinking of the beautiful Dwarf that seemed to haunt every single one of his thoughts, both sleeping and waking. While he still had yet to tell the Hobbit his name—at this point he’d started to think his subconscious might just be too unimaginative to think of one—Bilbo found him utterly enchanting. Which, now that he thought about it, was pretty pathetic, considering the Dwarf was just a figment of his imagination. The dreams were just so _vivid_ , he could almost believe they were real. But how could they be? Between the Dwarf and the wolf, it simply didn’t make sense.

Yawning widely, Bilbo watched the forest slowly glide past them, the mid-morning sun filtering in where it could through the thick canopy. Behind him, the Dwarf heaved a ponderous sigh like he was about to resign himself to something.

“Tell me about them,” Dwalin suddenly commanded.

Bilbo twisted in his seat, brows rocketing up his forehead. “Excuse me? I thought you disliked my ‘inane prattling.’”

“Better to hear you prattle than to see you fall off the pony and bean yourself on a rock,” said Dwalin. “A dead burglar is of no use to me. Now tell me about these dreams that have been bothering you every night.”

A small smile inched its way onto Bilbo’s face despite himself. He turned back around, reaching out a finger to stroke the downy feathers under Thorin’s chin. The raven leaned into the contact, closing its eyes in contentment. 

“If you insist,” the Hobbit teased, somewhat fondly.

Dwalin shot him a look that was so thoroughly unimpressed that Bibo could physically feel it on the back of his head. “Just get on with it, Baggins.”

“Well,” Bilbo started, smothering a laugh, “they always begin with me waking up just as I had fallen asleep, bound to whatever sturdy thing you’d found that day. But there’s always a Dwarf there, watching over me. Not you, obviously. I’m fairly sure I’ve never met him before; I would have definitely remembered him if I did.”

“Tell me ‘bout ‘im,” Dwalin grunted lowly. His tone was rougher than usual, the words clipped in a way that Bilbo couldn’t exactly parse.

The Hobbit glanced over his shoulder, but the Dwarf’s gray eyes were trained with utmost focus on the path ahead of them. His scarred face remained passively stoic, betraying nothing. A pensive silence suddenly befell them, and Bilbo looked at his hands, struggling to formulate a way to adequately describe his nightly visitor.

“He’s… I think a good word would be _intense_ ,” he said. “Perhaps a little awkward, but it's more like he states things bluntly than anything else. Sort of like you, now that I think about it.” 

Dwalin snorted loudly at that, but when he didn’t say anything else to interrupt Bilbo, the Hobbit continued, “But he’s also… regal in a way that I can’t quite explain. He has this sort of dry wit that I find utterly charming. It doesn’t come out often, since he seems to be too busy brooding most of the time, but between that and his singing voice, well…” 

He trailed off slightly, lost in the memory of that rich baritone. That was the main reason Bilbo knew that he had never met his dream-Dwarf in the waking world before. He would have definitely remembered a voice like that. 

“He sings for you?” Dwalin whispered.

“Sometimes,” Bilbo said with a shake of his head. “But only when I have a hard time getting back to sleep. Mostly he just sings for his wolf.”

“His _wolf_?” 

Bilbo couldn’t help but laugh a bit at the Dwarf’s incredulity. “Yes, his wolf! A huge shaggy black one, with scars all over its muzzle. It looks like it should want for nothing more than to gobble a small, attractively plump thing like me right up, but it only has eyes for the Dwarf. It loves him, and the Dwarf, well, he obviously loves it right back. It’s like the moment it appears, whatever ice that’s lodged around the Dwarf’s heart just _melts_.” 

Now that he had said the words aloud, it truly hit Bilbo how absurd it all really was. Seeing that gorgeous, intimidating Dwarf treat such a terrifying beast the way he did, with the sort of tenderness one would usually only reserve for a child or a lover, defied any and all basis in reality. 

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” said the Hobbit. “To be honest, it actually makes me a little jealous—nobody’s ever treated _me_ that way, let alone someone who looks like _that_.”

Dwalin made a queer strangled noise low in his throat, sounding somewhere between a choke and a cough. "He's good looking?"

"Incredibly," Bilbo sighed.

“You have quite the imagination, Baggins,” Dwalin mumbled into his beard.

Bilbo frowned, tucking his chin slightly toward his chest. He shrugged like it was no big deal, but something about the inflection in Dwalin’s voice rubbed him the wrong way. The Dwarf sounded bone-weary, as if something about the conversation had made him immeasurably sad. It sat oddly with Bilbo, souring his fond recollection.

“Yes, well. My father always used to say I had my head in the clouds,” he replied with finality, effectively ending the exchange.

They travelled in silence for a long while. Bilbo’s head grew heavier and heavier with each passing moment. Surely it would be fine if he took a little nap…

“ _Yeowch!_ ”

He immediately straightened, irritably massaging the spot on his arm where Dwalin had pinched him.

“What did I say earlier?” the Dwarf gruffed. “Keep talking. Tell me about this place you so desperately want to get back to. What’s your family like?”

Bilbo sighed, knotting his fingers together as he pondered the best place to start. At the beginning, he supposed.

“Alright, but before we begin, I suppose I should explain the fundamental differences between Tooks and Bagginses…”

Bilbo barely registered the light changing above them as the hours suddenly began to fly by right under his nose. Tiredness temporarily forgotten, the Hobbit didn’t notice the slight glaze over Dwalin’s expression as he went into exacting, excruciating detail about the intricacies of Hobbit family trees, and what exactly that meant in the grand scheme of Shire social politics. Though the Dwarf recognized that his plan had backfired somewhat, to his credit, he still made polite, if half-hearted, grunts at the appropriate moments, even asking a genuine question or two here and there.

“...And Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, my cousin by marriage, well, she’s a real piece of work. I imagine she’s already availed herself of all my good silver flatware—”

“Quiet,” Dwalin abruptly hissed, reigning Harley to a halt in the middle of the trail.

Thorin fluttered agitatedly on his shoulder and hopped to the ground. Dwalin dismounted the pony, his heavy boots making contact with the path with a barely-audible thump. He slowly drew his axes as he scanned the silent forest around them.

Bilbo looked around as well, but could see nothing of note in their surroundings. 

“Master Dwarf?”

Dwalin lunged forward, swinging the head of his axe high into the air. Bilbo shrieked and heaved his torso sharply backward, only narrowly avoiding having his nose lopped off by the blade. There was a sharp crack, and his eyes widened as two halves of a broken arrow fell harmlessly to the floor in front of him. 

“That's another one you owe me, Baggins,” Dwalin growled before spitting at the ground. "Thrice-damned bloody Orcs!” 

Expression twisted in incandescent fury, the Dwarf whirled around to face the dense foliage.

Not a split second later did a small group of thrice-damned bloody Orcs burst onto the path from all sides. Harley reared in surprise, nearly throwing Bilbo in the process. Clinging to the horn of the saddle in a desperate grip, he heard a loud smack over her frightened whinny. One of the assailants was immediately sent sprawling to the ground, their jaw hanging loose and limp from where it had been caught by the iron shoe on one of the pony's flailing hooves. 

Harley stomped back down, landing on the Orc’s sternum with a pulpy crunch that made Bilbo's stomach churn. With that, Dwalin let out a fearsome Khuzdul battle-cry and immediately set himself upon the remaining attackers.

There was a savage sort of efficiency to his onslaught. No movement was wasted as the Dwarf spun and slashed at the Orcs with his dual axes. Surrounded by three of the bandits, he effortlessly blocked a jagged blade that looked sharp enough to cleave a whole hog in two with the haft of one axe. He sent the other straight into the wielder's neck, jerking it out in a font of thick black blood. He quickly brought it around to join its twin in a brutal double-headed strike to another Orc's unarmored belly. With a sharp twist of his wrists, the second bandit was done for.

Then, just as he was about to turn and deal with the third attacker, the Dwarf staggered back, grunting in pain.

“ _Mister Dwalin!_ ” Bilbo cried, chest clenching with worry.

Dwalin's head turned sharply toward Bilbo. Seeing their quarry’s momentary distraction, the Orc that had gotten in the lucky strike beneath Dwalin's breastplate moved in for the kill. 

However, just at that moment, Thorin dove upon him with his talons. The raven screeching angrily as it clawed and pecked at the bandit's gnarled face, the Orc dropped their shortsword and frantically brought their arms up to protect their head. Dwalin used the opportunity to strike at the back of the Orc’s exposed neck, severing their head with one mighty blow. A fourth Orc, standing some distance away, raised their crossbow. 

The elastic creak of the bowstring immediately preceded the sound of a bolt singing through the still air. 

Bilbo’s blood froze in his veins as the sound of a horrible shrill, rasping screech pierced him down to his very marrow. 

The raven dropped like a stone, the ragged fletching of an Orcish crossbow bolt protruding from just below its right breast. The wounded animal noise that ripped itself from Dwalin’s throat was one of pure agony, as if his whole world had just been torn apart before his very eyes.

“ _NO!_ ”

He surged forward with a furious roar, attacking the archer with unrestrained, blood-thirsty viciousness. The Orc was only barely able to put up a fight beneath the onslaught, but it was as if every shred of mercy within the Dwarf had died when the raven's body had hit the ground. He hacked at the bandit with brutal alternating blows, until the Orc’s body resembled nothing more than foul-looking meat. 

Even then, he did not stop.

All went quiet, the only sounds piercing the silence being Dwalin's harsh, enraged pants and the intermittent wet _thwack_ of sharp Dwarven steel into thoroughly dead Orc flesh.

Bilbo clambered down from his seat on the pony. He hurried to the raven, which lay far too still in the middle of the path. He set his hand gently on its uninjured side, a rush of relief coursing through him when he realized it was still breathing.

“He’s alive!” he called tremulously.

Dwalin instantly paused in his excessive show of overkill at the words. He spun on his heel and barrelling toward Bilbo, a look of sheer panic twisting his features. 

He threw himself down next to Bilbo, carefully cradling the injured bird in his huge, scarred hands. Eyes bright with frenzy, the Dwarf’s face was positively drenched in thick black blood. The wound on his sternum bled sluggishly, staining the tattered edge of his brown gambeson bright red. 

“Thorin, _Kidhuzurâl_ ,” he breathed, voice trembling, “we’re so close. You thrice-damned idiot, you have to _live_!”

Bilbo’s hands fluttered uselessly in front of him. “What do we do?”

Dwalin looked up sharply at him, the blood standing stark where it was streaked across the bridge of his crooked nose. Then he raised his eyes further to glare at the sky, scowling as if he wanted nothing more than to curse out the very gods above them. He shrugged off his cloak and swaddled Thorin tightly when the bird began to struggle in Dwalin’s grip, until only the bird’s beak and the bolt’s wooden shaft protruded from between the heavy folds of fabric. Once he was satisfied with his work, he thrust the bundle into Bilbo’s slack hands

“Further down the path lives an Elf healer," he ground out, his fervent gaze boring into Bilbo's face. "She’ll probably try to shoot you, but tell her that I sent you before she can let her arrow loose. If you hurry, you'll be able to get there before nightfall."

Bilbo’s eyes darted between Dwalin and the raven in bafflement. 

“You want _me_ to go?" he exclaimed bewilderedly. "What about you? You’re hurt!”

“I’ll be fine,” Dwalin grunted. He pressed the swaddled raven more firmly into Bilbo's arms. “This was just a scouting party; I need to be here to deal with the rest of them. Plus, it’ll be faster if Harley doesn’t have to carry the both of us.”

Bilbo's lips thinned into a tight, anxious line. His eyes were still glued to the Dwarf's wound, which, while not that deep, had not stopped bleeding. The thought of leaving Dwalin behind to face the rest of a company of Orcs injured and alone completely unsettled him. 

“Mister Dwalin," he said quietly, "I understand that you’re very fond of Thorin, but he’s just a raven. Erebor is full of them. There's no sense risking yourself to save the life of one bird.”

Dwalin’s hand shot out, hauling Bilbo forward by the front of his coat in a rough grip. He brought his face close to the Hobbit's, his teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. For one heart-stopping instant, Bilbo was viscerally reminded of the wolf.

“How dare you,” Dwalin hissed. "He is not _just_ a raven, Thorin is my very _life_. You will take him to see the healer, and if you run off now, I don’t care how far away the Shire is. I will hunt you down and end you myself. Slowly. _Painfully_.”

Bilbo’s eyes shifted to the unrecognizable pile of flesh sitting ahead of him and shuddered. He nodded slowly in understanding, though, if he was being honest, the thought of taking the opportunity to escape hadn’t even crossed his mind. It surprised him.

“R-right,” he stuttered, his grip finally tightening on the injured bird. Thorin croaked weakly in protest, but he otherwise kept still.

Dwalin stared at him for a long, tense moment before finally returning the nod. 

Tattooed hands gripping him about the waist, Bilbo squeaked in alarm as the ground abruptly shifted out from under him. Dwalin practically threw Bilbo atop the pony, only barely giving the Hobbit a scant moment to get settled into the saddle.

“Now go!” the Dwarf cried. 

He gave Harley’s rump a sharp swat. Cradling the bird in the crook of his arm, Bilbo held on for dear life as the pony jerked forward. She broke out into a run, galloping at full-tilt down the path while their surroundings whizzed by in a sickening blur. Harley ran with seemingly no end in sight, until suddenly, they broke free of the forest completely. 

Bilbo blinked at the change. A grassy plain stretched out before them, the Forest River and the Long Lake glittering distantly in the setting sun. Closer to their position, BIlbo spotted a small cottage sitting at the summit of a small rise that abruptly ended in a sheer, rocky cliff. 

A series of howls warbled through the air behind him. Bilbo glanced over his shoulder, heart plummeting into his stomach as two warg riders burst from the treeline, hot in pursuit. Cold sweat breaking out over his forehead, Bilbo urged Harley forward, directing her toward the dwelling at the top of the cliff. The wargs, obviously on fresher legs, quickly began closing the distance.

At the sound of commotion, two figures burst from the front door of the cottage. They stood as near opposites; one one was willowy and tall, with flaming red hair that matched the color of the dimming sky, while the other stood much lower to the ground, short and stocky and in possession of brown locks a few shades darker than Bilbo’s own. He could just barely make out the taller of the two nocking an arrow, letting it fly with only the briefest of seconds to aim.

Bilbo gasped as the arrow whizzed past his ear. There was a sharp cry as one of the riders dropped from their mount a few meters behind Bilbo. The warg skidded to a halt, circling its dead master in confusion before another arrow suddenly felled it as well. 

The cottage gradually got closer as Harley started up the rise. However, she began to struggle to keep up her pace up the incline. The second warg rider quickly moved to catch up, but the redhead, who Bilbo could now make out was an Elf woman, strung another arrow. The arrow flew straight at Bilbo’s head, but he ducked just in time for it to sail harmlessly over his curls and embed itself into the forehead of the last rider, who was only less than a pony-length behind. She then dispatched the warg in the same way she had done the other.

Panting a sigh of relief, Bilbo slowed a bit, letting Harley finish the distance at a tired canter. Her hot breaths puffed heavily out of her nose, condensing into a thick fog in the cool evening air. Bilbo reigned her to a stop at the top of the rise. 

The next instant found Bilbo with yet another arrow shoved into his face.

“Oh, come on!” he moaned, eyes crossing as he focused on the sharp point of the head.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kill you right here for bringing _Orcs_ of all things to my house,” the Elf growled, though the tone sounded strange in her tinkling vocal register.

“This raven needs your help!” Bilbo exclaimed in a rush. He held up the swaddled bird, which was still breathing, but only shallowly.

The woman blinked at it, lowering her arrow just a fraction. 

“I’m not an animal healer,” she stated bluntly. She looked out at the felled bodies of the warg riders, a bit of surprise betraying her otherwise sober expression. “You came all this way for a common raven?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Bilbo laughed shakily. “But my travelling companion, a Dwarf by the name of Mister Dwalin, insisted that I bring it to you.”

“ _Did you say Mister Dwalin?_ ” the Elf’s companion cried. Placing a hand on the Elf’s waist, he maneuvered her out of the way to get a good look at the raven. 

“Er, yes?” Bilbo replied, looking down at the Dwarf.

His warm brown eyes were round, peering up at Bilbo with shock. The Dwarf was fairly young, just barely past the age of adulthood if his barely-grown scruff was any indication. But he had a handsome face, one that surely would have made Bilbo swoon if he were about twenty years younger. The angle of his nose vaguely reminded Bilbo of someone, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Where is he?!” the Dwarf demanded.

“Kili,” the Elf interrupted sharply, suddenly grim-faced. “Let us get inside, the sun is about to set. Have you eaten yet, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo’s stomach twisted in on itself, as if it had been reminded of its emptiness. 

“No,” he said, slightly abashed, “but if you would be so kind, Miss…?”

The Elf smiled slightly and handed her bow to Kili. He took it automatically, still staring suspiciously between Bilbo and the raven. She reached out for the bird, which Bilbo handed over to her with a strange sort of reluctance.

“Tauriel,” the Elf answered, spinning on her heel. “ _Meleth nîn_ , please show our guest inside.”

Kili’s face reddened slightly, and Bilbo’s mouth fell open in surprise. He knew just enough Sindarin to know what _those_ words meant, and to hear them being said to a Dwarf... He glanced at Kili, whose expression had turned slightly dopey as he looked after her. 

The Dwarf blinked out of his daze, turning back to Bilbo.

“C’mon,” he said, tone now much friendlier. “There’s a stew on.”

Bilbo scrambled off the pony in record time at the mention of stew. Pausing only to tie her to the post by the door, he followed the Kili inside. The cottage was small, just two or three rooms, but it was kept meticulously tidy. Strings of drying herbs hung from the ceiling, and the shelves were filled with books and enough bottles to rival that of any commercial apothecary. Bilbo’s mouth watered as the smell of a hearty vegetable stew wafted from an iron pot hanging over the crackling hearth.

Kili ladled some of the stew into two wooden bowls, setting one in front of Bilbo as he took a seat at the small table in the center of the room. The young Dwarf’s mouth fell open into a surprised ‘o’ as he watched Bilbo pounce on the bowl and disappear his entire helping in only a few short minutes. Though no drop of the stew had been wasted, the Hobbit daintily dabbed at his mouth with a napkin once he was finished.

“You can have seconds, if you’d like,” said Kili, awkwardly watching Bilbo with a dumbstruck expression. “Tauriel doesn’t really, erm, _eat_ all that much. She won’t care.”

“Oh, well. If you don’t think she’ll mind,” Bilbo replied, already out of his chair. 

He ladled a second helping, and then a third when that also rapidly disappeared. By the time he returned to the table with fourths, Kili’s eyes were huge, his own dinner barely touched. Looking down at his bowl, the Dwarf rapidly began to shovel the food into his mouth, as if he were afraid the Hobbit would snatch it right out from under his nose if he wasn’t quick enough about it.

“Apologies,” said Bilbo, digging into what he decided was his final helping at a much more sedate pace. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper meal. Now, how do you know Mister Dwalin?”

Kili glanced up at the Hobbit, his cheeks bulging with stew.

“He’s my uncle,” the Dwarf immediately replied around a mouthful of spiced potato.

Bilbo’s spoon paused in front of his mouth. “Your uncle?”

“Of a sort. I heard a rumor that he was in the area. I’m looking for him, you see,” Kili said, swallowing. His eyes wandered over toward a closed door in the corner, behind which Tauriel had taken the raven. “Or well… I was.” 

“But you got sidetracked,” said Bilbo, shaking his head in amusement. 

Kili ducked his chin, expression suddenly pensive. Jerking his shoulders noncommittally, he shoved another bite into his mouth.

“Tauriel and Dwalin used to know each other pretty well before he disappeared and she quit the Elven Guard. I came here on a hunch, thinking that she might know something about his whereabouts, and then, well…” The Dwarf paused. His voice was soft, almost reverent as he said, “It’s not every day you accidentally meet your One.” 

He looked up at Bilbo with such heartfelt emotion that the Hobbit felt his insides warm in a way that not even four bowls of piping hot stew could account for.

“Your ‘One’?” he asked curiously.

“The other half of my heart,” Kili answered. “It doesn’t matter to me if she wasn’t forged by Mahal. Even if the traditionalists won’t believe it, I’m hers, body and soul. Dwalin would understand.”

Bilbo arched a skeptical eyebrow at that. For some reason, the warrior didn’t particularly strike him as a romantic. 

“Would he, now?”

“Yes.” Kili nodded furiously. “He and my Uncle Thorin are like that. They’re the only other Dwarrow I’ve ever met who’d been fortunate enough to find their Ones.”

Bilbo choked, nearly spewing his mouthful of stew all over the table. Kili looked at him worriedly as he spluttered, the Dwarf halfway standing out of his seat. Waving him down, Bilbo pounding his chest until he was finally able to swallow.

“Your Uncle… Thorin,” he croaked.

Kili eyed him strangely. “Yes, if you’re travelling with Dwalin, surely you’ve heard of him? They disappeared from Erebor together over a decade ago, but I think they must have gotten separated somewhere along the way.”

“I see,” wheezed Bilbo, an odd lump beginning to form in the pit of his stomach.

“Thorin needs to come home straight away,” Kili said in a rush, his tone suddenly serious. “That’s why I’m looking for Dwalin. Even if they’re not with each other at the moment, if I can find him, then I can surely find Thorin."

Bilbo stared down at his hands, mind spinning. Dwalin had a lover named Thorin? A Dwarf by the same name he had given his bird? Yet the warrior never mentioned him?

"How did you fall in with Dwalin, anyway?" asked Kili, picking up his bowl to slurp noisily at the broth. 

Bilbo looked back up, frowning at the young Dwarf's lack of table manners.

"Well, he rescued me, and then I suppose he kidnapped me," he said, nose wrinkling.

Kili blinked. "Kidnapped you? That doesn't sound like Dwalin."

"He said I owed him a life debt," replied Bilbo with a shrug.

Kili let out a loud scoff, setting his bowl down with an audible thump. " _Life debt_? Dwalin knows those rules don't apply to non-Dwarrow." Then his expression suddenly turned troubled, and he muttered, "He must be really desperate for something from you if he tried to pull a stunt like that. That's… worrisome."

Bilbo felt like he had been summarily doused in cold water. He opened his mouth to reply, but was quickly cut off by the sound of a door latching. Tauriel walked into the center of the room, wiping her hands on a rag. Both Kili and Bilbo looked at her expectantly.

“He’ll live. Luckily the bolt was not poisoned,” she announced, before turning an inscrutable gaze toward Kili. “ _Meleth nîn,_ I think you should go see him.”

Kili’s brow furrowed in an expression that Bilbo found incredibly familiar, but again, couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

“The _bird_?” the Dwarf asked incredulously.

“Trust me,” Tauriel said, her tone gentle but firm.

Kili softened. He scooted himself back from the table, leaving his bowl where it lay. Bilbo did the same, his curiosity getting the better of him now that his gnawing hunger was more or less sated. He followed Kili as the Dwarf traipsed to the door and carelessly threw it open with a clattering bang. 

Bilbo nearly walked straight into his back as Kili abruptly froze on the threshold. Peering around the Dwarf’s shoulder, all the blood drained from his face as he saw the figure that lay recumbent on the feather mattress. 

Kili sucked in a sharp breath, his hand flying to his mouth in shock.

“ _Uncle?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Kidhuzurâl -- golden one  
> Meleth nîn -- my love
> 
> [sticks m' leg up] Well, thank you for reading!! Wonder what that conversation's going to be like. (exposition heavy, i imagine). 
> 
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhhh big meaty chapter alert. at this point i think i'm incapable of writing anything without practically a whole chapter of expository dialogue or political intrigue. i feel like i rewrote this chapter like four times so i'm just deciding to be done with it.
> 
> Enjoy?
> 
> TW for brief gore, mentions of forced/arranged marriages, and quite a bit of exposition

Propped up on a mountain of pillows, the literal Dwarf of Bilbo’s dreams glared frigidly at the entryway to the small spare bedroom. White cloth bandages strained against the defined muscles of his furred chest, just the barest hint of blood staining a spot on his ribs just below his right pectoral. The Dwarf’s brow furrowed even further over his intense blue eyes, and Bilbo suddenly realized with mounting horror who exactly Kili reminded him of.

The Dwarf’s deep rumble shook the room. “Kili? What in Mahal’s name are you—” 

He cut himself off at the sound of his nephew’s stifled sob, his thunderous expression clearing for one startled for a moment while his dark brows rocketed toward his hairline in surprise. Kili flung himself at the Dwarf on the bed. His arms shot out to catch themselves around his uncle’s neck, clinging to the older Dwarf as if he were afraid he would disappear again before his very eyes

“You’re alive!” Kili wailed, plastering himself to the Dwarf’s torso in a manner not unlike the freshwater limpets that clung to the pilings beneath Esgaroth’s boardwalks. “Nobody believed it, but I did!”

“Kili…” Bilbo’s dream-Dwarf said, blinking owlishly at his nephew in a way that looked _so much_ like the raven that it nearly sent the Hobbit into a fit of hysteria.

“You need to come home, Thorin,” Kili sniffed. He only slightly unburied himself from his uncle’s bandaged chest to stare up wetly at him. “Everything’s gone to shite, even more so than usual.”

Frowning, the Dwarf brought up a hand and began to stroke at his nephew’s hair—tentatively, like the motion was utterly foreign to him. Which Bilbo _knew_ it wasn’t, since he had seen firsthand the way the Dwarf treated the wolf nearly every night. 

“I’m trying, _irakdashat_ ,” Thorin sighed. “It’s not so simple.” 

That only elicited a fresh round of sobs from Kili.

“Great-grandfather has promised Fili’s hand to Smaug!” he cried. “They’re to be wed on Durin’s Day.”

Thorin’s expression, which had been gradually softening, immediately shuttered. His bright blue eyes blazing with the cold fire of pure, unadulterated rage, he forced the young Dwarf to unglue himself with a frightful shove.

“What?” he hissed through his teeth, his knuckles white in the fabric of Kili’s faded tunic.

“He announced it on Fili’s last name-day, now that he’s of age to officially be named heir apparent,” Kili explained grimly. “When they marry, Smaug won’t just be regent. Thrór is planning on naming _him_ as next in line instead of Fi.”

Thorin cursed loudly. Performing his best attempt to burn a hole in the white sheets pooling in his lap with only his eyes, he let Kili go in favor of scrubbing a weary hand down his face.

“I will not allow that to happen,” he grit out. “Dwalin and I are already on our way back to the mountain. We will return to reclaim my birthright before they can go through with it.”

“You promise?” asked Kili, his voice uncharacteristically small.

“ _Yes,_ ” replied Thorin, the fierceness of the vow writ emphatically upon his features. Then he closed his eyes, letting out a long breath before he quietly added, “You did well, Nephew. We’ll still have to be extremely cautious to avoid detection, but it will help to have allies inside who can prepare for our arrival on the day."

Kili nodded seriously, his eyes shining with yet more unshed emotion. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab on to Thorin once again, but Tauriel stayed the urge with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“ _Elin nîn,_ I think we should let your uncle rest,” she murmured. “His wound, while minor, is still healing. I do not want to undo all my hard work.”

Kili shrugged in obvious reluctance, though he took care not to dislodge Tauriel's hand on his shoulder. Thorin’s eyes shot toward the spot where it rested before turning the full brunt of his electric glare onto the Elf. 

Though the look wasn't directed at him, Kili still shrunk back with a wounded expression. Tauriel, however, just scowled at the Dwarf on the bed, her face the most outwardly emotive that Bilbo had seen thus far. She wrapped one of her thin arms around his shoulders in a gesture that unmistakably screamed of protection.

“Don’t think we won’t be discussing _this_ later,” Thorin growled, eyes darting between the two of them.

Arm still draped over Kili’s shoulders, Tauriel turned to lead them out of the room without another word. Bilbo quickly moved to follow, hoping beyond hope that the beautiful Dwarf that filled his thoughts somehow hadn’t noticed his presence.

It was a testament to his absolutely abysmal luck what happened next.

“Wait, Master Burglar,” Thorin called. “We have some things we need to discuss.”

Bilbo’s cheeks flushed at the epithet, not used to hearing it be used outside of when he was dreaming. Or, at least, when he _thought_ he was dreaming. Bilbo felt his whole body seize in mortification at the sudden realization that the Dwarf he had been idly fantasizing about was not only _very_ real, but he apparently was also Dwalin’s _soulmate_ —if such a thing were truly possible _._

To make matters even worse, Thorin, his gaze tight with expectation, patted a spot on the bed next to him, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Bilbo was certain he was going to hyperventilate. He reluctantly crossed the room, perching awkwardly on the edge of bed and arranging himself so his body angled as far away from Thorin as possible. 

He pointedly didn’t look at the Dwarf, looking down at his hands as his fingers reflexively unknotted and re-knotted themselves together in his lap. But Bilbo felt Thorin’s unwavering hot stare on his cheek like a physical ache, and a quick glance out of the corner of his eye revealed an angular face that grew increasingly waspish the longer Bilbo continued to ignore him. The Hobbit let out a long breath, chewing on his lower lip anxiously.

“So,” Bilbo started, breaking the oppressive silence.

“So,” Thorin repeated gravely.

"You're not a dream."

"No, I suppose not," Thorin snorted.

Bilbo shot him a look that was decidedly black, embarrassment and anger suddenly beginning to well acridly at the back of his throat. 

"So what then?" he asked exasperatedly. "You're a raven by day and a Dwarf by night? When were you going to tell me?"

Thorin glowered down at his lap with a complicated expression. His lips pursed faintly in consternation, and Bilbo cocked his head at him, eyes narrowed. 

If he wasn't mistaken, beneath the thick layer of attitude, Bilbo could have sworn the Dwarf almost looked _contrite_. The Hobbit barely stifled a scoff. No amount of contrition would cool Bilbo's pique without a thorough explanation.

"The less you knew, the less risk you were going to be if you decided to take your chances and run off," Thorin muttered, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet. "You’re not the only one with people after you, and Dwalin is quite… overprotective. Especially considering our conditions."

This time Bilbo actually _did_ scoff, the shame of being so thoroughly had still gnawing irritably at his insides. However, the Dwarf’s choice of pronoun gave him pause. 

"Wait, ‘ _our_ conditions’?" he asked.

Thorin made a low noise of disbelief. "Surely you must have guessed by now."

Bilbo squinted at him blankly for a moment, the gears in his head slowly beginning to turn.

"The wolf!" he exclaimed, snapping his fingers in realization. "So that huge black wolf… the one that nearly mauled me that first night, that was Mister Dwalin?"

"Indeed," Thorin grunted, settling back into the pillows. "You weren't in any real danger. You merely startled him."

"Not in any danger? Is that why you decided to brain me with a rock?" Bilbo spat.

Thorin glowered at him. "That was an accident. Dwalin isn’t the only one who’s protective."

He said it with a finality that brokered no room for argument. Judging by the look on the Dwarf’s face, Bilbo decided that it was in his best interest to change the subject. 

"So this… condition, as you put it," he sniffed mildly. "What exactly is it?"

Thorin breathed out heavily through his nose. He looked out the bedside window into the dark night sky, toward where Bilbo imagined Erebor would be. However, his expression was far from wistful. It resembled something more of a stormcloud, one that brewed on the precipice of an emotional horizon far in the distance.

“It’s a curse,” Thorin said lowly, “placed on us by Smaug the Terrible.”

Bilbo’s forehead crinkled in confusion. “Erebor’s regent? But why?”

“Master Burglar,” Thorin deadpanned. “I’m the rightful heir to the throne. You do the math.”

“Oh,” said Bilbo. That certainly made sense. Did that mean Thorin was a prince?

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Thorin snapped petulantly.

Bilbo’s mouth twisted in derision. While the Dwarf’s looks may have been thoroughly regal, his attitude certainly wasn’t at all princely. Thorin frowned at him, as if sensing his thoughts, though this time the look had something of a slightly disappointed cast to it. In a moment of what he could only call temporary insanity, Bilbo wanted nothing more than to reach a hand up and smooth the deep crease forming between the Dwarf’s eyebrows.

“Smaug is a newcomer to Erebor,” Thorin continued after a moment. “He may look like a Dwarf, but he’s actually a Dragonborn, a rare form of shapeshifter from the North, descended from the wyrms that terrorized the First Age.”

Bilbo hummed, digesting this new information. Well, for one thing, that certainly explained the snarling winged serpent that served as Erebor’s sigil. While he had never seen Smaug personally, it was hard to escape the regent’s influence, even all the way in Dale. He had already been deep in power by the time Bilbo had arrived in Esgaroth, and part of him had just assumed that it had always been that way.

“So, if he’s a… Dragonborn, as you put it,” he said, his humiliation at being tricked slowly beginning to dissipate, “how did he gain so much sway in Erebor’s court? I thought you Dwarves were quite leery of outsiders.”

“The only way a non-Dwarf can,” Thorin replied quietly. “Invasion. Having already gained control of Mount Gundabad, he came down from the wastes with an army of Orcs, hellbent on the conquest of the Southern regions. We were just the first and easiest target. ” 

“I see,” Bilbo said, prompting the Dwarf to continue. 

Thorin’s own prickliness also seemed to be beginning to wane, though only for it to be replaced with a deep, weary melancholy as he recounted more of the story

“First they laid siege to both us and Dale, salting and burning the surrounding plains and hillsides, leaving nothing but the desolation you still see today,” he sighed, turning his head on the pillow. “We tried to raise support from our so-called allies, but to no avail.” 

“Why not?” asked Bilbo. “Surely somebody must have seen what dire straits you all were in?”

That elicited a hollow laugh from Thorin. It was a haunting, utterly humorless sound.

“My… grandfather, King Thrór,” he started, grimacing as if acknowledgement of the relation personally shamed him, “had already been fairly unpopular as a ruler by the time Smaug arrived. His refusal to return the white gems of Lasgalen to the Elvenking had certainly seen to that, that bastard Thranduil’s own pettiness aside.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but huff slightly at the venom dripping from the Dwarf’s tone at the mention of Thranduil’s name. Thorin shot him a withering glance in response, but Bilbo merely motioned for him to continue.

“But Erebor’s sway in the region had already been diminishing for some time at that point,” Thorin resumed, though he looked at the Hobbit slightly askance, “and realistically, Dale was our only real friend left. However, they were being attacked as well. Famine wracked both our peoples as a result, and in our darkest moment, Smaug himself came in the form a fire-haired Dwarf, bringing food and riches with which to woo Thrór.”

Bilbo hummed. “I imagine he must have been desperate.”

“Very,” Thorin agreed, “but he was also taken in by the show of wealth. Smaug used the opportunity to whisper poison into my grandfather’s ear, telling him fanciful stories of how he could revive Erebor to its former glory, which included impossible plans to recapture Khazad-dûm and the mithril mines there. That particularly interested the king, since my father had been killed in a previous failed campaign there.”

A pained sound escaped Bilbo’s throat at that. He looked down at his hands, his own heart aching in empathy.

“I’m sorry,” said the Hobbit, true sincerity coloring his tone. “It’s a very hard thing to lose a parent.”

Thorin let out a shuddering breath. Eyes finally lifting back to Bilbo’s face, the Dwarf’s gaze was softer than the Hobbit had ever seen. It slightly winded Bilbo to be on the receiving end of it. A strange fluttering began to brew in his stomach, and Bilbo fisted his hands in the sheet, forcing himself to tamp the feeling down. 

“It was long ago,” Thorin said, but the way his hand shook slightly when he waved Bilbo off betrayed the lightness of his tone. “Anyway, the king surrendered and made Smaug regent. He even offered the hand of one of his heirs to cement the ill alliance in accordance with our laws.”

“Oh, right,” interjected Bilbo, remembering that Kili had mentioned something about a wedding. “What was his name… er, Fili?”

Thorin shot him an incredulous look that bordered on insulting, 

“No, Master Burglar,” he said slowly, as if he couldn’t even begin to fathom the depths of Bilbo’s denseness. “He offered mine.”

Bilbo gasped. “But you and Mister Dwalin, I thought…”

“You are correct,” Thorin rumbled. “Though we never officially married, my heart belongs to him. It was a grave insult on Thrór’s part to force me into that position. Dwalin was— _is_ my most loyal shield-brother, my captain of the Royal Guard, my... _husband_ in all but in name. Even if it had just been a normal marriage of political expediency, I could have never done that to him. Or to myself.”

The sheer longing in Thorin’s tone caused something to twist painfully in Bilbo’s chest. “So you refused then,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Thorin replied. His voice barely rose above a whisper as his eyes slipped back toward the window. “And in response I began a campaign to expel Smaug from the mountain. Though we were forced to move in secret, he and I rallied many brave Dwarrow in Erebor to my cause. However, Smaug had—and still has, for that matter—eyes and ears everywhere. To get rid of the problem, he cursed us both, so that we would always be together, yet forever apart. I take the form of a raven by day, and he a wolf by night. While our hearts will always recognize one another, we never know what we do while under the effects of the curse. We haven’t been able to communicate with each other outside of notes and letters for almost eleven years now.”

“That’s awful!” Bilbo cried, genuinely aghast. 

Squeezing his eyes shut, Thorin nodded curtly in agreement. Every muscle in his upper body was wound tight, his shoulders were locked in a hard, tense line.

Bungo Baggins had often told his son that he possessed the soul of an incurable romantic. Bilbo always waved such accusations off. He had always been far too busy dreaming of Elves and faraway places to think much in the way about love and settling down with just one person. But now that he was faced with the plight of this would-be King and his warrior spouse, he thought that his father might have indeed been onto something about that whole soul business. Because, perhaps against his better judgement, Bilbo found that it was currently bleeding. 

His earlier ire entirely forgotten, Bilbo’s hands instinctively reached for one of Thorin’s own, moved as he was by this. The Dwarf’s eyes popped open, at first wide with shock as they darted down toward the sight of Bilbo's thumbs rubbing comfortingly over his large knuckles. But then his brows slowly began to drift back toward the center of his face as if pulled there by some invisible source of gravity, which only grew stronger the longer he continued to stare. 

Bilbo stiffened, his whole body going rigid with chagrin as he realized what he had just done. Flushing to the pointed tips of his ears, he hurried to untangle his grip from the Dwarf. However, with an immediate twist of his wrist, Thorin caught hold of one of Bilbo's fleeing hands before the Hobbit could snatch it away. 

Bilbo gaped at him, a spark jumping down his spine at the feeling of that broad palm nearly eclipsing his own. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done himself, Thorin’s face shifted through multiple enigmatic expressions, all of them decidedly unreadable as he gazed blankly at their joined hold.

Bilbo found himself thoroughly distracted, however, by the revelation that the pads of Thorin’s fingers were rough with calluses—but not in the way they would if the Dwarf had just spent hours pulling on a bowstring day in and day out. Rather, they spoke of something much subtler, like Thorin had once spent the majority of his free time diligently plucking at the strings of a harp or some other similar instrument, instead of focusing entirely on defense and bloodshed.

It was only a small clue to the Dwarf at the core of Thorin, but it made something inside Bilbo shift dramatically. An unnamed emotion began to wrap around his ribs like vines on a trellis, filling the dark, empty spaces around his heart.

“Surely there must be a way to break the curse,” the Hobbit said after a moment, almost mumbling the words in an attempt to heed the weighty silence that had suddenly befallen them.

“When we stand together before Smaug as our true selves, on a day without a night and a night without a day, only then can it be broken,” Thorin recited, his own baritone going equally soft. 

“What does that mean?” Bilbo asked. 

He glanced back down to their hands. Feeling like the hold had gone on much longer than what was necessarily appropriate, Bilbo reluctantly pulled his hand back. He shivered when the Dwarf finally lifted his gaze to Bilbo’s once more, residual electricity still crackling between them.

“Dwalin and I have been spending the past ten years trying to figure that out, but we think we’ve found an answer,” Thorin murmured. “We think that what Smaug is referring to is actually an eclipse.” 

“You don’t know for sure?” said Bilbo, slightly doubtful.

Thorin’s lips thinned into a hard, narrow line beneath his beard. “It’s the only lead we have, and the next one is on Durin’s Day.”

“The same day as the wedding,” breathed Bilbo. “Won’t that make things more complicated?”

The Dwarf nodded. “The mountain will no doubt be on high alert with preparations. While I don’t approve of Kili’s _association_ with Thranduil’s former captain, I’m glad he was here to tell us about it.”

“What does Smaug hope to gain from the union?” 

“Power,” said Thorin simply. “But what he truly wants in the Arkenstone. It’s been lost for nearly an age now. Many suspect that losing the stone was the impetus for Erebor’s decline, seen as an ill omen of Mahal’s disfavor. Smaug must believe it’s hidden somewhere in the mountain if he’s willing to become king to get it.”

"A stone? That seems like an awfully Dwarvish thing to want,” Bilbo remarked, tapping his chin thoughtfully with one hand. He kept the other folded neatly in his lap, his skin still burning where Thorin had touched it. “Why would a dragon need it?”

“Conquest is not just about brute strength and gold, Master Burglar. There is an inherent subtlety to statecraft, which is distasteful, but true. Smaug knows this, and I imagine it’s part of the reason he didn’t kill me outright, other than just to be needlessly cruel. The stone is a symbol of our people, one that can unite all the Dwarf realms under the flag of Durin. If you control the Arkenstone and Erebor, you effectively control the entirety of the Eastern kingdoms. Including Eryn Lasgalen, much as Thranduil would be loath to admit it.” Thorin smirked somewhat at that, before becoming serious once more. “Once Smaug has Mirkwood, Dale, and the Dwarrow realms under his allegiance, he will move West without a second thought, until all the free peoples of Middle Earth are under his control.”

The sheer gravity with which Thorin finished his explanation instantly made Bilbo’s head throb. Suddenly overwhelmed, he flopped onto his stomach at the foot of the bed. 

It was all just a little too much for his Hobbitish sensibilities. For as much as Bilbo was considered something of an eccentric back home, it was only until this incredibly strange and stressful chapter in his life that his biggest concern had been anything more than making sure his heirloom strawberry pie recipe beat Fatty Bolger’s at the Shire-wide Summer Harvest Showcase. Things like curses and star-crossed romance, not to mention political intrigue and religious symbolism surrounding what sounded like it amounted to an overblown mathom, were simply too far removed from Bilbo’s comfort zone for his tastes.

Massaging his temples, he groaned into the mattress before turning his cheek to look at Thorin, who stared at him dumbly in bemusement.

“What’s even the _point_ of conquest, though?” grumbled Bilbo. “It all just seems like so much unnecessary trouble.”

“Greed,” Thorin huffed like the answer was obvious. “Like you said, Smaug’s a dragon. It’s in his nature.”

“Well, perhaps if he just sat back and appreciated what he had,” Bilbo replied, “he wouldn’t feel the need to nose his way into other people’s business. I bet he’s never had a puff of Old Toby, or a pint of Hobbit ale. One of either will make you want for nothing more in this life.”

Thorin hummed thoughtfully, pondering this for a moment. He cast an appraising eye over Bilbo, as if performing a rapid re-evaluation of the Hobbit’s character.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold," Thorin remarked carefully, "it would certainly be a much merrier world." 

The words were slow, almost contemplative, and Bilbo found himself nodding furiously along with them. 

“ _Exactly_ ,” he said, propping himself up onto an elbow.

Thorin only made another rumbling hum in response. Bilbo didn’t bother to respond right away, either. This time they lapsed into a silence that was much more comfortable and any of the ones before it. The mood felt impossibly lighter, as if some wall between the two of them was starting to methodically be torn down.

They stayed like that for a long while, Bilbo idly tracing the weave of the linen with his finger. In spite of the heavy conversation and foreboding news, his head felt clearer than it had been since he escaped the mountain. The sudden answers to questions he hadn’t even known to ask aside, Bilbo’s stomach was full, and he rested on a comfortable bed. Pathetic as it was, this was the most content he had felt in a while.

Part of him only regretted that Dwalin wasn’t here to join them. 

A cold feeling settled deep in his gut, souring his momentary sense of comfort. Even if he was a little rough around the edges, Bilbo had admittedly grown somewhat fond of the warrior’s companionship. He glanced up at the Dwarf at the head of the bed. Thorin gazed out the window once again, his jaw set in brooding preoccupation. 

Bilbo sighed. Was he wishing for his wolf? Did Thorin even know Dwalin had been injured? 

Worry clawed at the interior of Bilbo's chest as his mind suddenly began to spin out with increasingly frantic thoughts of what might have become of the warrior. Had more Orcs attacked him as well? Were they under orders from Smaug? How had Dwalin fared against them? Had he properly treated his wound? Had he gotten more of them? Was he lying hurt somewhere? Was he—?

Bilbo’s throat closed, making him feel like he was drowning on nothing but air. Is this how the prince felt every night the wolf didn't come to visit? How in the world could Thorin stand it?

The Hobbit rolled over onto his back.

_Eleven years._

What could that have been like? To not be able to properly hold one’s spouse... To know that they’re right there, but to not be able to touch them, to kiss them… 

That was simply one of the greatest injustices Bilbo could think of.

Soft snores eventually began to emanate from the head of the bed. Bilbo looked up, his eyes crinkling warmly at the sight of the prince fast asleep, still propped up on Tauriel's soft down pillows. Thorin’s lips were parted beneath the short black scruff of his beard, and the lines of his face were finally smooth with the bone-deep relaxation of much-needed rest. Bilbo figured that getting shot with a crossbow bolt would exhaust anyone. 

With that image imprinted onto the forefront of his mind, Bilbo closed his eyes as well. 

Though his anxieties regarding Dwalin’s possible fate dogged him even into slumber, his sleep was deep and dreamless, truly restful in a way he hadn’t been able to achieve in weeks. However, the quiet was soon broken by a series of plaintive howls piercing the still twilight outside. Bilbo and Thorin’s eyes snapped open simultaneously, their gazes immediately locking in the space between them. 

_Dwalin_ , they mouthed at the same time.

Kili chose that moment to burst through the door, the wood meeting the wall with a thud that nearly rattled the teeth from Bilbo’s skull. 

“We’ve got trouble!” he cried.

Bilbo jumped, only narrowly dodging the pair of trousers Kili had thrown toward the bed. Thorin caught the fabric in mid-air and immediately started pulling them on beneath the sheet. Bilbo’s face turned scarlet, turning his face away in mortification. Had the Dwarf been naked this _whole time_?

“What sort of trouble?” barked Thorin, wincing only slightly at the movement pulled at his wound.

“You know those warg riders from earlier?”

Thorin sneered. “What of them?”

“Well, apparently they had friends,” said Kili.

Thorin threw the sheet aside, the seams of Kili’s spare trousers bulging around the thickness of his thighs. It spoke volumes for Bilbo’s alarm that he didn’t take the chance to ogle as the Dwarf strode across the room. Kili handed him a short Dwarven sword, his own bow already in hand.

“But you’re still healing!” Bilbo protested as he followed them into the main room.

“I’ll be fine,” Thorin said, already striding out the door. 

Bilbo made a face. Dwalin had said much of the same thing earlier, and now he was nowhere to be found. 

He followed the two Dwarves out the main door. Tauriel stood on the edge of the rise’s downward slope, picking Orc attackers off as best she could as they advanced on the cottage. The sky slowly lightened to the East, Erebor’s lonely peak resolving itself as a massive pointed shadow in the distance. A sharp spike of concern lanced through Bilbo for Thorin, who didn’t have very much time at all.

Shirtless save for his bandages, Thorin stalked a short way down the rise, raising his sword with a vicious Khuzdul battle cry. It caught the attention of a nearby rider, who charged their warg straight for him. Thorin held his sword out, twisting out of the way just in time to dodge the assault. He sliced a clean gash down the beast’s side. It severed the saddle’s cinch in the process, sending the rider tumbling to the ground. The warg’s innards spilled out of its flank, steaming in the cool air. It keeled over onto the Orc, pinning them in place. The Orc yowled in an enraged ululation, but Thorin quickly silenced them with a quick jab to its exposed chest.

Arrows sang through the air as the Dwarf beat a hasty retreat back up the hill, hotly pursued by two more riders. Still four more emerged from the forest in the distance, and Tauriel maintained her focus on them, while Kili shot at those in mid-range. Thorin sprinted past them, the two wargs still hot on his tail, goading them on as he led them behind the house.

His whole body a spasm of terror, Bilbo pressed himself to the wall of the cottage, inching around the side opposite Thorin had taken. He peered around the corner to see one warg and its rider already bleeding out on the ground, with Thorin and the other rider circling each other warily on the edge of the cliff. Their mount was nowhere to be seen, though the streak of blood that ended at the rocky edge was a good indication as to where it might have gone.

Thorin pounded his chest with his free hand, his heels mere inches away from the terminus of the blood trail. 

“ _Come and get me!_ ” he snarled.

The Orc took the bait, lunging toward Thorin with an inhuman screech. Thorin danced out of the way, slashing at his assailant with a broad upstroke. It caught the Orc straight in their unarmored stomach, black blood gushing over the blade. Thorin made a low noise of satisfaction as the Orc lurched forward, twisting as it tumbled over the cliff. 

Bilbo’s heart stopped.

“Thorin, _watch out!”_ he screamed.

Thorin whipped his head up. “Wh—?”

The Orc’s hand had shot out at the last second, grabbing Thorin by the ankle of his borrowed trouser-leg. Thorin stumbled, arms pinwheeling in the air as he lost his balance.

Bilbo darted forward, hands grasping futilely at the empty air as Thorin fell backward into space. The Dwarf desperately threw his body weight forward, but his bare feet slipped out from behind him on the combination of blood-slick gravel and damp late-autumn grass. He landed hard on his sternum, the lower half of his body already dangling off the cliff’s edge. Thorin howled in pain at the impact to his wound. Distraction loosening his hands, he slipped further over the edge.

“Thorin!” Bilbo cried, diving for the Dwarf’s hand just as Thorin finally lost his grip. Sharp rocks and gravel poked up into his body, and Bilbo desperately tried to anchor himself as Thorin’s dangling weight pulled him closer to the edge as well. 

Thorin looked up at him, eyes wide. He looked toward the ground and back to Bilbo, who was straining with the effort to keep him from falling.

“Master Burglar,” he said through grit teeth, though his tone was as calm as if he were merely discussing the weather. “I’m going to drag you over. You need to let go.”

“Not a chance!” Bilbo shrilled, angry tears beginning to well up in his eyes. 

His body slid closer toward the edge. The sky became progressively lighter overhead, and a halo surrounded Erebor’s silhouette, signaling the impending sunrise. The first golden rays almost seemed to make the Dwarf’s body shimmer.

“I know you’re frightened,” Thorin replied, glancing at the Lonely Mountain behind him. “But truly, it’s alright. Let me go now.”

“I’m not scared!” Bilbo retorted, frightened beyond reason. 

Head and shoulders over the cliff now, Bilbo’s palms began to sweat. He futilely tried to yank Thorin up, but the Dwarf was just too heavy. Thorin dropped his sword, bringing his other hand up to stroke at Bilbo’s knuckles softly with his thumbs. The blade made a metallic clatter on the boulders below. 

“I swear I can—”

“ _Let. Go._ ”

Thorin harshly jabbed his thumb into the soft pressure point on the underside of Bilbo’s wrist. Bilbo gasped in pain, his fingers loosening just enough for Thorin’s hand to slip out of his slick grip. Bilbo screamed, cursing Thorin in every language he knew and then some when the Dwarf plummeted downwards, still wreathed in gold.

The new dawn fully broke over Erebor. It shown down onto the Long Lake, its still waters glimmering harshly in the light. Bilbo’s hands instantly flew up to shield his eyes from the glare. When he finally was able to bring his hand down, he nearly sobbed with relief.

Rising from the long shadow of Erebor’s craggy peak against the horizon, the raven’s silhouette contrasted drastically against the rising sun. It flapped once, twice, before it landed unsteadily on the cliff's precipice, clearly favoring its right side. Its bright blue eyes caught the early morning sunlight, shining luminously in the golden glow. All the tension suddenly exited Bilbo's body, leaving him to practically melt into the gravel. He turned his head to look at the bird, who gazed at him quizzically. 

_Of course._

Huffing with effort, Bilbo rose unsteadily to his knees on the edge of the cliff. The raven limped toward the Hobbit. It leaned against his thigh as they both looked out toward the mountain and the rising Eastern sun. 

The bird let out a low croak. " _Burglar?_ "

"I’m here, Thorin," Bilbo replied, shooting it a wan smile. "Let's get you home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> irakdashat -- nephew  
> Elin nîn -- my star
> 
>   
> (lmfao Dwalin if you needed Bilbo's help so badly perhaps you should have just told him the truth straight up)
> 
> Yeah... yeah. There were certain things I loved about the Ladyhawke movie, including scenes I pretty much ripped straight from the film, but there were also others that I thought were dumb as hell, namely the plot impetus and the ~twist~ lol so i'm doing away with all that. In terms of like, Sauron and all that other stuff...I guess this sort of takes place in a canon-au where I don't think the ring exists ??? or if it does, it's just gonna stay with Gollum in the goblin tunnels forever and Sauron isn't going to be much of a problem lmfao. So that's not really an issue. idk! it literally doesn't matter. 
> 
> Anyway! Thank you so much for reading, I can't believe how kind people have been haha... Until next time!
> 
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darkness my old friend lmfao i don't really have anything fun to say here. Enjoy this I guess?
> 
> No real warnings, but the end of this chapter is the first instance of this fic earning its E rating. Don't get your hopes up, I'm still bad at writing smut but i'm hjornt (and so is Bilbo lmfao). It's an incredibly brief scene in italics after the third [LOL] scene break if you'd rather skip it. The basic details of it are in the end note if you would like.
> 
> (Also, my official stance on using the word fuck in Tolkien fanfic is that you absolutely can use it. its meaning as a vulgar word has not changed since the saxons used it in old english and as a linguist I think jirt would have to honor that argument.)

Dwalin summited the hill at about mid-morning, just as Bilbo had finished brushing and re-saddling Harley for the day ahead. She had only tried to bite him once during the whole ordeal, which he counted as progress.

Kili had already left for Erebor, too excited by the news of Thorin’s survival to wait around even a moment longer. While Tauriel apparently already knew something about the curse, she hadn't even been aware that Thorin and Dwalin were in the area until Bilbo had showed up on her doorstep. Though not quite a lie of omission, and simply more of an exercise of caution, Kili still seemed terribly betrayed by her reticence. Ostensibly their first disagreement as a couple, that had certainly been an awkward conversation for Bilbo to be present for. However, they both seemed slightly cheered by Bilbo’s recount of the fact that Thorin and Dwalin had an idea of how to break the curse.

It was at that point that Kili had gathered up his things and bounded off toward the East to make a beeline for the mountain—as there were many secret preparations to be made before Durin’s Day, now that the true heir would be returning—but not before he said a soft word of absolution to Tauriel, much to her relief. She had met it with a tender kiss to his lips, followed by another, then another, and then another, and hadn’t that been amusing, seeing her bend practically double to lavish affection upon her Dwarven suitor for his soft heart and easy forgiveness. 

It had left her in a jolly, chatty mood all morning, though Bilbo could only listen to her musings with a decidedly half-hearted ear as he waited for Dwalin to arrive safe and sound.

“—left King Thranduil’s service when Smaug invaded,” Tauriel said as she rounded the corner of her cottage, the last of the warg carcasses slung over her shoulder. The bulky load nearly eclipsed her thin frame, though she handled it with a near-supernatural ease. “I didn’t agree with—Oh, hello.”

She stopped short at the sight of the scarred Dwarf glowering at her from the edge of the rise.

"Captain," said Dwalin gruffly.

Tauriel paused briefly to gracefully toss the corpse onto the smoldering burn pile. Putrid black smoke wafted high into the crisp morning air, but Tauriel had allayed any concerns Bilbo had about it attracting notice. Evidently, she had something of a reputation in the area when it came to dispatching orcs. Once that was done, she approached the Dwarf, nodding seriously at him.

"Captain," she greeted in return. 

They clasped forearms, staring at each other with expressions of near-identical gravity for a few long, strained seconds. 

Then, Dwalin made a strange coughing sound low in his throat. Tauriel snorted, her mouth trembling at the corners with the strain of maintaining her grim-faced stoicism. 

They both gave up the façade at about the same time. They grinned widely at each other, their hands tightening companionably on each other’s arms. Dwalin tilted his head back to laugh uproariously, the Elf soon following with her own tinkling giggles. Merriment made his whole face light up, its craggy edges softening in a way that Bilbo had only rarely seen it. 

It was a good look on him.

"I'm not exactly the captain of the Guard anymore," Tauriel said after a moment, brushing away a tear.

"Neither am I," Dwalin replied with a shrug.

Still smiling, his teeth flashed brightly beneath the black bush of his beard as he gazed fondly at the raven. Thorin hopped gingerly around the pile of smoldering caracasses, his beak shooting out to tear at a hanging piece of viscera. He threw his feathered head back as he urged it down his gullet.

"He give you any trouble?" the Dwarf asked, grin turning slightly lopsided at the sight.

Tauriel waved him off. "No more than usual. He's always been a terrible patient."

"You're telling me," Dwalin scoffed. He jerked his head back toward the pile. "What about them?" 

"Again, nothing we couldn't handle," Tauriel said. "Though His Majesty insisted on sticking his nose in it, as usual. He nearly gave Master Hobbit a heart attack when he tumbled off the cliff."

All of Dwalin’s remaining mirth abruptly drained from his expression. Tauriel sighed. Bilbo could have sworn she rolled her eyes at him.

"When he _what_?" the Dwarf barked, anger suddenly steeling the lines of his face. 

"It was nearly sunrise. It was fine," soothed Tauriel.

"Bloody self-sacrificing moron,” he growled. “I swear, if he doesn't get himself killed one day, I'll finish the job for him."

Bilbo loudly cleared his throat.

"I'll tell him you said that," he remarked casually. 

As if he had finally noticed his presence, Dwalin turned to the Hobbit, crossing arms as he glared at him appraisingly. He returned Dwalin’s glare with his own withering look, giving as good as he got.

"So. I take it he told you everything, then," said the Dwarf, his tone flat.

"Well, I suppose somebody had to," Bilbo replied, shoulders tensely hunching up toward his ears as he tightened the cinch on Harley’s saddle.

"And?"

"And what?" Bilbo snapped, throwing up his hands. "We're already this far. Might as well go all the way."

He should have been surprised by the sentiment that left his mouth. The life debt was a sham; there was nothing binding Bilbo to this foolhardy quest. But before he could begin to think too deeply about it, Thorin took the opportunity to flutter up to Bilbo's shoulder, rasping with the strain of the motion. Bilbo winced as the sharp claws dug into his flesh, but he brought a hand up to stroke the feathers on his belly all the same. 

Dwalin blinked as the raven trilled in contentment, puffing out its feathers to preen around the healing wound on its right side.

"Huh," he said, glancing between Bilbo and the raven significantly.

Bilbo had no idea what that meant. Instead of attempting to parse the Dwarf’s thoroughly indecipherable expression, he turned his head to gaze out over the Eastern horizon once more. The sun sat directly over the tip of Erebor's jagged peak, signaling a beautiful day ahead of them. 

"Let's just get going," he sighed. "We still have a long way to go." 

"Yeah," said Dwalin carefully, "I guess you're right."

"I'm _always_ right," Bilbo sniffed.

Dwalin scrubbed a weary hand down his beard.

"Don't push it, Baggins."

***

* * *

"Why didn't you _tell_ me I was starving you?!"

Bilbo watched in bemusement as Dwalin stalked around the fire. This had to have been his fifth or six lap, and the Hobbit was honestly surprised a rut hadn’t been worn into the ground by now. 

Tauriel's cottage lay three days’ travel behind their campsite, which was situated on the southeastern bank of the Long Lake. Esgaroth lay just across the mouth of the river from them. Dwalin was just tall enough for the shiny pate of his tattooed scalp to gleam out over the top of the surrounding reeds, and Bilbo wondered if any of the villagers would be able to spot the evidence of the Dwarf’s tantrum in the way it rhythmically paced back and forth along the shore.

"It's not like you could have known,” Bilbo replied with an insouciant shrug. “I didn't want to be a burden."

"A _burden!_ " Dwalin yelled, untangling his agitated fingers from his beard to throw his arms wide. He turned to address Thorin, who cocked his head at him. "A burden he says. Just my luck that I've been stuck with not one, but _two_ thrice-damned martyrs."

"Hey, I told you Hobbits have big appetites!" Bilbo protested, nibbling demurely at his third whole rabbit of the afternoon. He wished he could have had a salad or some other green thing to accompany all the meat, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Dwalin had already spent the majority of the midday hours trapping them as it was.

The Dwarf spun on his heel to round on Bilbo in white-hot fury.

"And that was just the understatement of the Age, now wasn't it!" he roared, his chest heaving with the exertion of his meltdown.

Bilbo swallowed his morsel, thoroughly unimpressed. "Are you quite done?" 

Dwalin's shoulders slumped. He collapsed heavily on the ground next to Bilbo, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. He ran his palms over his scalp, and if the Dwarf had any hair on the top of his head, Bilbo was sure he would be tearing at it. 

"Seven meals a day," he breathed in disbelief.

"I know you feel bad," said Bilbo, "but truly, it's alright. Hobbits can survive just fine on three, provided we have a hearty snack somewhere along the line.”

Dwalin sounded utterly miserable. “And you would know that, how?” 

“Experience,” Bilbo said. Licking a bit of juice off of his thumb, he set the spit down to pat at the Dwarf’s shoulder in a consoling manner. “Everybody learned that one the hard way."

Dwalin gazed out of the corner of his eye, looking at him askance. "The hard way?"

Bilbo's smile froze in place. He slowly retracted his hand, letting it fall limply into his lap.

"It's nothing." He forced the words out through his teeth. "Just one bad winter."

Dwalin nodded slowly. Gaze dropping to his lap, he gestured for Thorin to hop on his knee, which the raven did happily. He looked at the bird thoughtfully, idly straightening one of his feathers.

"Y'don't like wolves much, do you?" he asked.

Bilbo nearly choked on his rabbit at the unexpected question. "What in the world gave you that idea?"

"You get this look on your face whenever you mention 'em," Dwalin mumbled, letting Thorin nip affectionately at his fingers. "You try to hide it, but I can tell you're scared. It's that same look you got while talking about that winter. A Dwarf can't help but think they may be related."

"Huh," Bilbo said, letting out a long breath. "Well, aren't we perceptive." 

Dwalin merely heaved his huge shoulders in despondence. 

Frowning, Bilbo scooted closer to the Dwarf. He pressed their legs together as he leaned back on his hands, hoping the contact would anchor him somewhat. Part of Bilbo wanted to rest his head on Dwalin's impossibly thick arm, curious to see if it really was as firm as it looked, but something told him that the impropriety of that action would just be _far_ too great for him to handle. Still, the warm glow of contentment suffused Bilbo's chest when, after a moment, Dwalin’s thigh tentatively pressed back. 

"My mother was killed by a wolf," Bilbo started, stubbornly pressing his leg even harder into the Dwarf's when he immediately began to stiffen. "So no, they're not my favorite.”

Dwalin rested his forehead in his hand. “When?”

“A long time ago, during that fell winter I just mentioned. The river had frozen over for the first time in living memory, allowing the wolves from the Old Forest to wander their way into the Shire. Food was scarce for everybody then. They did what they had to do, as did we. It’s no fault of the wolf that he must kill the rabbit to survive,” said Bilbo, shooting an ironic glance toward the remains of his dinner. “And it just so happens that Hobbits are closer to rabbits than wolves. My mum knew that. I _know_ that."

"But you're still afraid of them," Dwalin said, tone aggravatingly stubborn. 

"I'm also afraid of deep water," Bilbo retorted. "But you don't see me cowering in fear of the lake just because I can't swim."

Dwalin dragged his broad palm wearily down his face, his mouth partially blocked by his hand. 

"I don't want you to be afraid," he mumbled, the words coming out slightly garbled.

Bilbo made a face, his eyes narrowed at his thoroughly vexing Dwarvish companion. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Dwalin grunted. His hand fell off to the side, the back of it resting idly on Bilbo's knee. 

The spot where it landed lit up like a firework, the entirety of Bilbo’s awareness acutely narrowing to that single point of contact.

It was at that point that Thorin croaked irritably, apparently grievously offended that he had been ignored for five whole minutes. He hopped up onto Bilbo's shoulder, nipping harshly at the pointed tip of his ear in retribution. It sent an unfortunate _zing_ singing down the back of the Hobbit's neck. 

Bilbo's whole body jerked in response, color immediately flooding his cheeks. Thorin squawked, throwing his wings out in a desperate attempt to keep his balance, giving Bilbo a mouthful of feathers in the process. He probably would have even found it funny, commenting on how the raven's reaction was so similar to Thorin's at the edge of the cliff, had the bird not painfully dug its talons into the meat of Bilbo's shoulder instead of just hopping off. Dwalin leaned to the side, his expression one of surprise before it suddenly turned thunderous.

" _Ukhzu!_ Don't be bothering our burglar," he scolded. 

Dwalin shooed Thorin off the spluttering Hobbit’s shoulder, expertly coaxing the raven onto his leather vambrace. Thorin immediately hopped around in a quick half circle and leaned forward, begging for affection. Dwalin rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, you dumb bird." He skritched Thorin under the chin, just how the raven liked it. "Spoiled brat."

Despite the outward gruffness of his words, Dwalin’s tone toward the raven was nothing but pure indulgence, if not also tinged with a little bit of grief. It was instances like this that really highlighted that Thorin was truly more bird than Dwarf while under the effects of the curse. Not for the first time that day, it made Bilbo's heart ache with a fierceness he couldn't even begin to describe when he thought about what Dwalin and Thorin must have gone through— _are_ going through. 

“He misses you so much, you know,” he said quietly. “You’re practically all that he talks about.”

The prince had become much more talkative in the evenings now that the truth was out, even if he was still slightly awkward and overly blunt most of the time. It had become something of a ritual these past few nights: Dwalin would leave to shift and hunt just before the sun went down, and Thorin-the-raven would often leave with him, only for Thorin-the-Dwarf to return shortly after, fully dressed and wearing the cloak that he and Dwalin shared. Bilbo thought there was something terribly romantic about that, draping oneself in a lover’s warmth and scent even if you couldn’t be with them in any significant sense. 

As for the wolf itself, it hadn’t made an appearance in Bilbo’s evenings these past few nights. But then again, the Hobbit was thankfully back to sleeping at normal hours, so he might just have missed him.

Dwalin stilled, his fingers pausing under Thorin’s beak. “Aye? What’d he say?”

“Just little things here and there. He often says he misses besting you at sparring.” Bilbo smiled slightly at Dwalin’s answering snort, sighing as he continued, “but I can tell he misses even more the times when you would beat him. He misses your squabbles with his sister, and the way you'd strike the fear of Aulë into the new recruits, but mostly he just misses spending time with you. He once told me that you got so fed up with him locking himself in his room all day to practice harp, that you learned the viol for the express purpose of accompanying him. He said that though he would sit through a hundred terribly boring formal dinners and council meetings just for an excuse to have you by his side, he thinks of those evenings playing music with you the most.” 

Without even noticing it, Bilbo’s tone had edged into something quiet and slightly wistful, a strange sort of longing settling onto his chest like a physical weight. In an effort to avoid sounding overly maudlin, he shot the Dwarf a pointed look and added, "He also worries that you’re so busy taking care of others that you forget to take care of yourself.” 

“He told you all that, did he?” Dwalin asked, voice tight as he regarded the Hobbit with a skeptical eye.

Bilbo waved his hand dismissively. “Eh. More or less. You know how he is with feelings. I may have editorialized that last bit, but it was definitely implied.”

“Heh, thought so,” said Dwalin, amusement finally replacing the last vestiges of his earlier grief despite the wetness of his gaze.

A smile bloomed on the Dwarf’s face as he turned to Bilbo. The Hobbit sucked in a sharp breath. It felt akin to staring into the sun, absolutely dazzling in a way that scrambled all of his previously coherent thoughts like eggs under a whisk. A ludicrous image suddenly flashed across the front of his mind, one of _sitting down with Dwalin in a cozy dining nook, thighs pressing against one another much as they were now. Their heads were bent closely together over their second breakfast, thick rashers of bacon and omelettes that Bilbo had loaded with the works. The soft strains of a harp drifted in from somewhere in the backgr_ —

“—cial someone?”

“Huh?” Bilbo grunted, shaking himself out of his daze. “Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Dwalin’s brow crinkled a bit in worry, but he repeated, “I said, you must be a hit with the Hobbit lads and lasses. You got someone back home you’re rushing to see again? Other than your witch cousin who’s got your silverware, of course.”

That elicited an ugly snort of a laugh from Bilbo. "Oh, no. I've completely written myself off as a confirmed bachelor, I'm afraid.”

“Ach, that’s a shame,” Dwalin replied, shaking his head in disbelief. “Must have broken a lot of hearts when you decided that.” 

“You flatter me, Master Dwarf,” the Hobbit scoffed.

“Ain’t flattery if it’s true.”

Bilbo immediately ducked his head, flushing scarlet. The raven hopped back onto the ground in front of the Hobbit, peering up at him with one bright blue eye. It should have relieved him; whatever Elf magic Tauriel had used on Thorin was working wonderfully, and he grew stronger by the day. However, an strange sense of anxiety settled over Bilbo as he watched the bird begin to strut the length of their campsite.

“You’re incredibly lucky,” he murmured, “to have someone you love so much, and who loves you equally in return. Kili said something about that, actually. He… he called him your ‘One’.”

Dwalin let out a long breath. He mirrored Bilbo’s posture, leaning back on his hands now that Thorin was otherwise occupied. Bilbo felt as if he would combust with the sudden heat fluttering in his stomach. If Dwalin would just shift his hand a little to the left…

 _No,_ he abruptly thought, slamming a hard wall down over the feeling. _Absolutely not._

“Ah, the lad told you that, did he?” the Dwarf huffed. “Of course he’d say something like that. Barely grown into his beard and now he thinks privy to everything there is to know about love. If you ask me, Ones are something that only exist in the epic tales.”

“But…?” Bilbo prompted, arching an eyebrow.

“But… it’s hard to explain,” Dwalin sighed, somewhat reluctantly, “the connection I feel to him. To Thorin. Part of me _does_ want to believe that the royal idiot is the Dwarrow Mahal forged to be the other half of my soul. But another part of me knows it isn’t so cut-and-dry. What Thorin and I have is a rare gift, I know that, but my _One_?” He shot Bilbo a queer look. “Something tells me it isn’t as simple as all that.”

“I see,” Bilbo hummed, though an ugly sort of jealousy began to brew in the hollow at the base of his throat. “Whether Ones are real or not, I don’t think there’s anything like what you two have to be found in the Shire.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person yet,” replied Dwalin lowly.

Bilbo let out a derisive chuckle. “Or perhaps I’m too picky. Or just too eccentric. It caused quite the scandal when I began making preparations to go on an _adventure_ of all things, after all.”

“You sure you want to go back?” Dwalin asked, sounding only half-joking.

“Positive,” Bilbo lied.

Dwalin’s expression twisted into something inscrutable. He turned away from Bilbo, his eyes drawn to the half-eaten rabbit.

“The sun’s about to set soon,” he said, tilting his head up toward the dimming sky. “You should finish your dinner. I spent a long time getting those bunnies for you, and I wanna see you eat ‘em.”

Bilbo sighed, reluctantly picking up the spit even though he was no longer hungry.

“Yes, mother hen.”

***

* * *

The first snow fell two days after they had made camp on the shores of the lake across from Esgaroth. Bilbo knew it was bound to happen sooner or later, but that didn’t mean he was entirely prepared for it.

“Your teeth are chattering,” Thorin observed from across the fire, the stem of his pipe poised against his lips.

“I’m f- _fine_ ,” Bilbo insisted, stubbornly clenching his jaw. He was wrapped tightly in their thin blanket, curled up as close to the fire as he could possibly be without getting burnt. Still, his back was frightfully cold where it brushed against a snowdrift when he breathed too deeply. Something told him the blanket just wouldn’t cut it for tonight.

“You don’t look fine,” said Thorin, brow furrowing into what Bilbo thought of as his signature frown. “Your lips are practically blue.”

“Well, not all of us have nice fur cloaks to save us from the cold,” Bilbo sniped peevishly, pique getting the better of him as a chilling breeze swept its way through their campsite.

Thorin’s mouth fell open slightly, eyebrows rising up his forehead as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Bilbo scowled, burrowing himself deeper into the blanket until only his eyes were visible. A thoughtful hum escaped Thorin’s throat as he snuffed out his pipe. It immediately put Bilbo on edge.

“What are you thinking?” he asked suspiciously.

“Hold on a moment,” the Dwarf said, tapping out the ashes.

He heaved himself from the ground, padding his way around the fire. Bilbo closed his eyes wearily, listening to the snow crunch under Thorin’s boots. He squawked when the blanket was suddenly ripped off of him.

“What in the Valar’s names are you doing!” Bilbo shrieked, instinctively curling himself into an even smaller ball.

“Peace, Master Burglar,” said Thorin.

Bilbo’s eyes popped open in abject shock when something warm and incredibly _solid_ draped itself across his back. Thick thighs slotted behind his own, and a huge arm snaked around his middle, crushing him against a blazing wall of heat. A bristly chin propped itself on his head as heavy fabric was tucked around the front of his body, encasing Bilbo in a thoroughly pleasant cocoon, with Dwarf royalty acting as his own personal heating stove.

“Thorin,” Bilbo squeaked, his heart pattering loudly in his chest.

“We’ll never get any sleep if you’re up all night shivering and I have to listen to it,” Thorin rumbled. He pulled Bilbo impossibly closer, and the Hobbit could physically _feel_ the words as they were spoken. “I figured I could share my cloak.”

Bilbo squirmed slightly. He frantically trying to put some distance between them, but Thorin was having none of it. His grip was like iron around Bilbo’s stomach, anchoring him helplessly in place. Bilbo froze, his brain whirling with the implications of their position. 

“Relax. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to hold someone. Let me enjoy it,” Thorin commanded softly. Then his tone abruptly twisted into something unsure, and he added, “Unless you’d rather I not.” 

“It’s fine,” Bilbo whispered, the words escaping his mouth without his consent.

It was most certainly _not_ fine, but Bilbo found himself loosening up anyway, practically melting into the dark, warm space Thorin had carved out for them among the snow. His breathing eventually evened out, matching the rise and fall of Thorin’s chest against his back. He subconsciously tangled their legs together, and tried not to think too hard about the fact that Thorin was letting him. 

Bilbo sighed, burrowing in deeper. If it had been at least ten years since Thorin had last held someone, it had been almost an equal amount of time since Bilbo had allowed himself to be held. If the Dwarf could enjoy this simple pleasure, well then, he figured it wouldn’t reflect too poorly on Bilbo if he did the same.

Just when Bilbo thought it couldn’t have gotten any better, Thorin began to hum, singing a wordless tune that immediately made the Hobbit drowsy. He decided that it didn’t matter if being tucked up like spoons in a drawer felt horribly intimate. He and Thorin were friends. Friends did things for each other, like sharing body heat on cold nights, or spending a whole day trapping rabbits when one of them somehow got it in their head that the other was starving.

Yes, Dwalin and Thorin were Bilbo’s friends.

Just his friends.

***

* * *

_"Thorin,_ Kidhuzurâl _. I think he's going to come."_

_The Dwarf in question paused in his idle mouthing at Bilbo's sack. He turned his head, a wicked smile slowly stretching across his face. Bilbo whimpered at the feel of teeth flashing against the beard burn irritating the soft insides of his thighs, the noise turning into a cry as Thorin nosed briefly at the base of his cock._

_He brought up his huge hands to spread the Hobbit’s legs even wider across Dwalin’s broad lap, his calloused fingertips creating deep divots in Bilbo’s skin. The adjustment only gave Dwalin even more room to work with. He ground up mercilessly against Bilbo's sweet spot, causing Bilbo to leak yet another gush of precome._

_Pink and shiny beneath the dark hair of his beard, Thorin’s licked his lips with a look of pure hunger. He leaned in slowly, sweeping the fluid up in one long, filthy stripe with his tongue. He then pressed a chaste kiss to the head of Bilbo's cock._

_Bilbo sobbed wordlessly, twisting against the restraints binding his wrists_ — _a standard Ereborean knot. He felt like his body was on fire. Sweat pooled in the divot of his clavicle, dripping down his chest and over his nipples, which were pink and hard with abuse. Dwalin leaned over Bilbo's shoulder, humming in appreciation at the sight of Thorin cozily ensconced between the Hobbit's plump thighs, those luminous blue eyes looking up at them adoringly beneath his long lashes._

_"Where would you like it, Master Burglar?" Thorin asked. His hot breath ghosted over Bilbo's purpling cock, making it twitch as if it had actually been touched. "In my mouth… or on my face?"_

_Bilbo's eyes bulged, mouth falling open in a desperate pant. He threw his head back onto Dwalin’s rock-hard shoulder with a broken, whining keen. Dwalin’s slow, grinding thrusts stuttered briefly as Bilbo clenched impossibly tighter around him._

_“I think I can guess which one he wants,” he teased, nipping at the shell of the Hobbit’s ear with sharp teeth._

_“Hm, I know,” purred Thorin, lazily stroking Bilbo’s length with a slick hand. His own impressive cock lay wet and spent across his thigh. He had already had his turn; the taste of it still sat hot and heady at the back of Bilbo’s throat. “I just want to hear him say it.”_

_“Come on, Baggins,” Dwalin murmured lowly. “His Majesty doesn’t have all day, and neither do I.”_

_He punctuated the sentiment by effortlessly lifting the Hobbit up and slamming him back down to the hilt. The slap of skin on skin echoed noisily in Bilbo’s ears, and he let out a loud groan at the feeling of Dwalin once more splitting him open most deliciously._

_Bilbo squirmed on the thick cock, his flush travelling even further down his sternum. He buried his face into soft hair at Dwalin’s neck, the sight of Thorin’s mouth so close to the end of his cock threatening to do him in._

_“Y… your face,” he stuttered quietly._

_“Knew it,” Dwalin hissed, ducking his head to catch Bilbo’s mouth in a sloppy kiss full of teeth. His fingers pressed harshly at the hinge of Bilbo's jaw, forcing it open for his tongue._

_With one hand on the underside of his chin, Dwalin wandered the expanse of the Hobbit’s heaving chest with the other, the rough palm travelling down the length of his torso until they came to rest on a soft hip. Dwalin dug his fingers in there, gripping hard enough to leave bruises. Or, at least, Bilbo hoped they would._

_Thorin let out a quiet laugh. “Look at me, Bil_ — _”_

Bilbo woke with a shuddering jolt.

It was still dark outside, and their camp on the edge of the lake was still and quiet. The fire continued to burn, though much lower than it had been when Bilbo had gone to sleep. Thorin slept soundly behind him, his strong arm still slung across Bilbo’s chest.

That all would have been fine, had Bilbo not been absolutely drenched in sweat and achingly, _mortifyingly_ hard. He shifted, the button fly of his trousers rubbing uncomfortably against his throbbing erection. Bilbo let out a small, involuntary moan at the friction.

Embarrassment suffused his entire body. He lifted up the cloak slightly to let in the frigid air, sighing in pure relief when the tent in his trousers mercifully began to deflate. 

He shuffled onto his back beneath Thorin’s arm, frowning at the stars above him. This hadn’t happened to him in years. Why now?

Then the memory of the dream’s contents—and its two main actors—hit him like a Dwarven mattock to the stomach. All the blood drained from his face. He moaned again, this time for a very different reason.

“Sweet Yavanna,” he mumbled into his hands. “I’m so fucked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation Notes:
> 
> Ukhzu -- a Khuzdul exclamation that pretty much amounts to "stop" or "stop that" but like, in a super imperative sense  
> Kidhuzurâl -- golden one
> 
> A quick synopsis of the sexual content:  
> Bilbo has a sex dream where Thorin and Dwalin double team him. There's some dom/sub undertones but he's SUPER into it. It's his dream after all lmfao.
> 
> Anyway uuuuhhhh thanks for reading!!!! And thank you for all the kind and lovely feedback as always, it absolutely means the world to me. Until next time!
> 
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHHH SORRY...THIS UPDATE IS VERY LATE....i found myself in a mega funk and couldn't even bring myself to look at this for a couple days. However, I hope this is okay? Thank you so much for your patience, and your kind words, as always!
> 
> TW for animal injury and some perilous situations involving frozen bodies of water

Bilbo didn’t know which Vala his existence must have angered, but he was fairly certain that he had never met anyone else with luck quite as bad as his own.

It wasn’t like he had never heard of a person loving two people at once. He wasn’t a judgemental Hobbit by nature, unlike many of his neighbors. But still, he didn’t think it could have ever happened to him, especially not with two people who were so wholly wrapped up in each other as to be blind to everything (and every _one_ ) else like Thorin and Dwalin were. 

Relationships like that simply weren’t done in the Shire, and considering what Bilbo knew of the seeming Dwarvish fascination with the concept of soulmates, he was confident that such dalliances generally were not conducted in Erebor, either. Not that he could bring himself to care very much at all about that, because for the first time in his short, Hobbitish life, Bilbo truly knew greed. 

A large part of him wished furiously that the three of them could keep on travelling like this forever, with Bilbo whiling away the days tucked up against Dwalin’s chest and idly chatting as they shared Harley’s saddle, and spending his nights huddled with Thorin for warmth, surrounded by the cloak that smelt strongly of the both of them. He savored every moment of Dwalin’s quiet, gruff tenderness, every ounce of Thorin’s keen sense of dignity, of duty, of justice. If Bilbo was being honest, it gave him somewhat of a new perspective on this whole Smaug business, because much like a dragon, the Hobbit hoarded every glance, every small scrap of friendly affection thoughtlessly bestowed upon him by his two Dwarvish companions—and still he shamefully yearned for more. 

He felt like the worst kind of thief, stealing their kind words and gentle touches and keeping them for his own, even when he knew none of it was ever truly meant for him. The worst part was that even if Bilbo had never seen them interact directly, it was so blatantly obvious how well suited they were together. 

What in the world could a simple country gentlehobbit possibly have to offer them?

That depressing question plagued Bilbo’s thoughts as the days passed by in a monotonous blur, with time managing to somehow simultaneously both crawl at a snail’s pace and flash by with lightning quickness. Before he could even blink, they had traveled the length of the Long Lake and cut northeast along the plain, before zagging back slightly westward until they arrived at the base of the Lonely Mountain. 

“ _Burglar_ ,” the raven croaked into his ear.

Bilbo smiled faintly, bringing up a hand to scratch at a spot just below Thorin’s wing that often got itchy. The raven puffed up happily, tightening its grip on Bilbo’s shoulder as it nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Bilbo was pretty sure he would have permanent welts where Thorin liked to dig his talons into, but it was worth it just to be near him, even as a bird.

“Is that the only word you can say?” he teased lightly.

The raven pulled its head back to glare at him indignantly. “ _Burglar,_ ” it huffed.

Thorin hopped off Bilbo’s shoulder, waddling toward Dwalin and the fire before abruptly veering off-course to hop onto the ice that frosted over the mountain pond they were camped beside. The Dwarf had snared a few of something he called a “coney” for dinner, but it looked far more like a huge, tailless mouse than a rabbit to Bilbo. He had first encountered them when he had escaped down the desolate slopes of Erebor the first time, the animals making loud, high pitched alarm noises whenever he passed by a nest. Bilbo had no idea how Dwalin managed to catch so many without alerting the whole mountain.

“You can let me cook my own supper for once, you know,” Bilbo called, keeping an eye on Thorin as the bird 

“He who catches supper gets to cook it,” said the Dwarf.

“I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be the opposite,” Bilbo pointed out. “Besides, it’s not like you eat any of it.”

Dwalin jerked his shoulders in an insouciant shrug. “It’s fine. Not the worst thing, doing this for you.”

Bilbo frowned, something inside him going cold at the words. Here he was again, acting as an unscrupulous proxy, a dodgy middleman who took advantage of a lonely Dwarf’s desire to provide. Feeling like the worst sort of scum, he walked to the edge of the pond, watching Thorin as he tried to peck at the fish below the ice. 

While his inveterate selfishness never wanted this journey to end, another, infinitely more decent part of Bilbo couldn’t wait until they had broken the curse. Dwalin and Thorin would finally be happy again, and finally be able to turn the full force of their attentions onto each other like they deserved. Then Bilbo could slink back to the Shire and lick the wounds caused by his infuriatingly complicated and unnecessary feelings. 

“Will you leave again tonight?” he asked, not bothering to turn around. The sun was just about to dip below the Western horizon. 

“It’s for the best,” Dwalin replied. It was the same answer he gave every night. “I have to get going. Dinner’s ready. Make sure to eat all of it.”

“Yes, _Mum_ ,” Bilbo sighed, rolling his eyes. 

The Hobbit spun on his heel, stalking back toward the rocky outcropping under which they had made their camp. The sun was just about to dip below the Western horizon. Dwalin was ready to leave, already having shed the sword (which was apparently Thorin’s) and his axes. A bundle of Thorin’s clothes was tucked securely under his arm. The Dwarf whistled sharply, and Thorin alighted from the lake. The raven performed a couple of acrobatic twirls before landing securely on Dwalin’s vambrace, the wound on its side now completely healed.

“Showoff,” Dwalin huffed.

Bilbo swallowed heavily as his stomach coiled into a series of increasingly complicated and ugly knots. “Have a good night.”

The Dwarf cocked his head, eyes narrowing as they scanned Bilbo’s face. 

“G’night,” he said after a moment, though there was an absence to his voice that spoke of preoccupation. “Give the royal stonehead my love.”

“Of course,” Bilbo replied faintly.

Dwalin strode off, disappearing behind a boulder near where they had tied Harley for the night. Bilbo shivered and sat down on the bare rock beneath the outcropping, only lightly picking at the meat of the skinned and roasted coney. He found that he didn’t have much of an appetite. Instead, Bilbo wondered what time of day it was in the Shire, and what life would be like once he returned to his comfortable bachelorhood free of things like curses and Dwarves that were far too handsome for a middle-aged Hobbit’s own good.

It was less than an hour before the first stars appeared, and not long after that before Thorin strode into the clearing. Bilbo perked up and set the half-eaten rodent aside, but his face fell immediately upon witnessing the Dwarf’s thunderous expression.

Bilbo’s hands flew up in a fretful display of useless fluttering, his voice slightly shrill as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

Thorin collapsed on the ground beside him. Though he continued to scowl, he automatically lifted one of his arms to create space to share the cloak. Bilbo immediately took the invitation, scooting along the ground until he was neatly tucked into Thorin’s side. Bilbo relaxed slightly as the heavy weight of the Dwarf’s arm draped itself across his shoulders. Thorin let the fabric drop, carefully fussing with it until it was arranged in a way around the both of them so no cold air could get through. 

The prince let out a long breath, tension pinching the space around his eyes and downturned mouth as he reached for his small pouch of tobacco. Bilbo waited patiently as the Dwarf deftly packed the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe with one hand. Thorin lit it, taking in a long, brooding drag before exhaling through his nose.

“It’s Dwalin,” he finally said, smoke curling from his nostrils. 

He handed the pipe to Bilbo, which the Hobbit took without hesitation. He sent Thorin a quizzical look as he set the mouthpiece to his lips and drew a few puffs. 

“He seemed fine to me when I last saw him,” Bilbo said on the exhale, passing the pipe back to Thorin.

“He’s always been good at hiding things,” the Dwarf said, waving the pipe away in favor of glowering into the fire. “I can’t be sure, since he’s not exactly the Dwarf we know when he’s a wolf, but something is worrying him. I can feel it.”

Bilbo took another thoughtful drag, replaying his memories of earlier that evening and noting nothing overtly strange. “What makes you think that?” 

“He hasn’t come around these past few nights,” said Thorin. His fingers drummed a nervous rhythm atop his broad thigh. “His visits have been more infrequent lately, but usually it’s rare that he doesn’t come at all.” 

“Huh,” Bilbo replied, not knowing exactly what to say to that.

“Today he took off without even bothering to greet me.” Thorin’s voice lowered appreciably, his next words coming out at a volume barely above a whisper. “He never does that.” 

“Perhaps he’s just anxious about finally being back in Erebor,” Bilbo suggested, though his chest spasmed painfully at the hurt evident in the Dwarf’s tone.

Thorin sighed. He leaned back against the rock and tightened his arm more securely around Bilbo’s shoulders. The Hobbit ducked his head, not wanting Thorin to see his flush that was most definitely not from the heat.

“Perhaps,” Thorin said quietly. “Or perhaps things are just different now.”

“What sort of things?”

Thorin noncommittally cleared his throat, finally gesturing for the pipe again. “Nothing, just some things I’ve been thinking over recently. Not anything you need to worry about; you’re probably right, anyway.”

“I’m always right,” Bilbo mumbled, though he didn’t particularly feel the sentiment at the moment. He handed the pipe back to Thorin.

“That’s awfully confident for someone who thought he could fight the ornery badger living in his hedgerow and win,” Thorin remarked, a droll smirk playing on the corner of his lips.

“Ugh, that was _one time!_ ” Bilbo groaned. He covered his face with his hands, though that did nothing to hide the pinkness at the tips of his ears. “I was still in my tweens! Don’t you remember being young and dumb and feeling like you were invincible?”

Thorin chuckled around the stem of his pipe.

“I hope you choke,” the Hobbit snipped, glaring at the Dwarf through his fingers.

That only made Thorin laugh harder. He threw his head back, exposing the long line of his throat for the Hobbit’s greedy gaze. Feeling infinitely lighter for having ameliorated the Dwarf’s sour mood—even if it was slightly at his own expense—Bilbo’s heart swelled large enough to burst. 

The rest of the evening passed in the same companionable manner, chatter filling the small alcove as they traded embarrassing childhood stories and mercilessly teased each other about them. Once Bilbo grew tired enough to sleep, it ended as it always did, with the Hobbit cradled against Thorin’s bulk like the spoons in his cutlery drawer. Bilbo sighed contentedly, his new, ever-present guilt diminishing into something vague and toothless as Thorin hummed into his ear.

He felt like he had only just fallen asleep when a loud, pained howl echoed over the mountainside. Bilbo’s eyes snapped open, and Thorin immediately sat up, rising to his feet in the blink of an eye. Bilbo blinked at the sudden loss, the cold of the night chilling him down to his bones. Slowly shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, he followed Thorin out toward the frozen pond.

The moon shone brightly overhead, nearly full in a fat waxing gibbous. It illuminated the small, bowl-shaped mountain meadow nearly as brightly as the sun itself. The ice over the water gleamed prettily, but Thorin ignored the ethereal beauty of the sight, going as still as the stone around him as his eyes locked on to the summit of a small snow-covered rise on the other side of the pond.

A four-legged figure of all black limped down the ridge. It favored its left paw, leaving dark prints behind in the snow whenever it needed to set its foot down. The wolf’s ears were pinned back to its head, gleaming teeth bared in an obvious signal of distress. Bilbo’s breath stuttered as the wolf suddenly lost its balance, tumbling the rest of the way down to the opposite bank.

Thorin let out a sharp, wordless cry. He began to rush forward, reaching out with his boot to step onto the ice. Panic lancing down his spine, Bilbo lunged and grabbed his arm, hauling the much larger Dwarf back with as much strength as he could muster.

“Thorin, no!” he cried. He held on for dear life as the prince began to struggle against his grip.

“Let me go, Master Burglar!” the Dwarf barked, throwing off Bilbo’s hands. “Can’t you see that he needs me?”

“I know that,” said Bilbo. Though every muscle in his body was wound so tightly with alarm that he began to tremble, he caught Thorin’s arm once again, his knuckles going white as he dug his fingers tightly into the Dwarf’s sleeve. “But we don’t know how thick that ice is.”

Thorin froze, his arm suddenly going slack as he appraised the situation with new eyes. Luckily, Dwalin was able to struggle to his feet. The wolf shook off the snow that clung to its scruff. It finally spotted them standing on the other side of the pond, letting out a mournful whimper that carried hauntingly across the smooth ice, amplified several times by the natural acoustics of the bowl-shaped meadow.

They immediately moved to go around the edge to meet Dwalin on the opposite bank, but the wolf had a different idea. It limped onto the frozen pond, the ice creaking ominously beneath its weight. Thorin and Bilbo both froze, watching in horror as the creaking only grew louder and louder the further the wolf walked over the water.

However, it wasn’t until the wolf was near the center of a pond that a sharp snap pierced the night air. Cracks began to spiderweb out from beneath Dwalin’s paws. The wolf stilled near the center of the pond, its head whipping from side to side as it tried to identify the source of the sound. There was another earth-shattering crack.

Then it disappeared, plunging into the freezing water below.

Thorin screamed, letting out a wordless cry of anguish that echoed ghoulishly off the surrounding rocks. Bilbo wasn’t faring much better. He found himself frozen in place, unmoving, unbreathing, with the only sound he could hear being the deafening roar of his own blood rushing in his ears. 

The meadow went silent.

Suddenly, a soaked black head appeared from the hole in the ice. The wolf desperately struggled to tread water, its breath condensing in front of its scarred snout as it let out a series of terrified yips and whines.

Thorin yelled something in hysterical Khuzdul. Though he didn’t understand the words, the sound acted as a rough kick to Bilbo’s brain, his thoughts abruptly speeding into overdrive as a half-baked plan began to manifest itself. He sprinted for Harley’s saddlebag, leaving Thorin still frozen but shouting bloody murder from the edge of the pond, the Dwarf clearly locked in an internal stalemate about what to do. While precious seconds that they didn't have continued to tick by, he carelessly flung their supplies to the side before finally extracting the longest length of rope he could find, which had been shoved to the bottom of the bag sometime in the past weeks.

With no time to ponder how long it had been since there had last been use for rope of any kind, Bilbo dashed back, clumsily tying one end of it around his waist in a knot that left a few feet of tail. His bare feet slipping in the snow and ice, he skidded to a stop next to Thorin, who tore his frenzied gaze away from the wolf to look at the Hobbit with wide eyes. Without a word, Bilbo thrust the long end of the rope into Thorin’s slack hands. 

“What in Mahal’s name are you doing?” Thorin demanded, instinctively clutching at the cord between his numb fingers.

“I’m much lighter than you,” Bilbo explained in a rush. “And much more expendable.”

Thorin’s gaze tightened, his face suddenly incandescent with rage.

“Don’t say that!” he yelled. The rope creaked beneath his grip. “I should be the one to go—”

“There’s no time to argue,” Bilbo asserted, trying with mixed results to project confidence. “Be ready to pull us out.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, tension crackling between them as Thorin’s expression turned increasingly stormy. Bilbo stubbornly held the gaze, glaring back as good as he got. Finally, Thorin blinked, his eyes dropping toward the rope in his hands.

“Foolhardy Hobbit,” the Dwarf breathed, before his tone turned stern. “If you fall through, I’ll kill you myself.”

Bilbo nodded, trying and failing to smile reassuringly as he turned back back to the pond. He took a deep breath, stepping gingerly out onto the ice. There was another loud creak. Bilbo immediately dropped to his stomach, distributing his weight over a wider area. When it seemed like it was going to hold, Bilbo slowly crawled out toward the hole in the ice.

“Please don’t break, please don’t break,” he chanted as he finally neared his goal, though he barely heard himself over the sound of his own thrumming pulse.

Bilbo wriggled close enough so he was within arms length of the hole, his heart thudding painfully against the interior of his ribcage as he came face to face with Dwalin’s snarling maw. Gray eyes mooning with distress, the wolf's paws scrabbled at the jagged edge of the ice, its injured foot smearing it with bright red blood. Bilbo tentatively reached out for him, but immediately had to snatch his hand back when the terrified wolf almost took it clean off in a single snap.

“It’s alright,” Bilbo soothed, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible despite the fear threatening to paralyze his vocal cords. “I only want to help you. It’s me, it’s your Bilbo, don’t you know me?”

The wolf’s ears folded back against his head. It let out a plaintive whine. Bilbo inched forward, clutching the long tail of the rope in his fist.

“That’s it,” said the Hobbit. “Thorin is over there on shore, he’s waiting for you, he misses you so much—”

Keeping up the steady stream of babble, he lurched forward, just barely able to loop some of the slack around the wolf’s chest. Dwalin snarled viciously, rearing back and pulling him even further over the hole in the ice. Bilbo’s entire body seized, his vision tunnelling slightly as he stared into the water's unfathomable black depths. It didn't matter if it was only a few feet to the bottom; if the wolf couldn't stand, then it was deep enough for the Hobbit to drown in. 

So focused was he on his own fear that he didn’t notice one of Dwalin’s fumbling paws take a swipe at his shoulder. The wolf’s claws gouged into Bilbo’s coat, tearing into the flesh below. 

With an aborted cry of pain, he felt himself be dragged over the icy edge.

“ _BILBO!_ ”

All the breath was socked out of Bilbo's body as it hit the frigid water. Adrenaline surging through his veins, he kicked upwards as hard as he could, one of his hands grasping onto Dwalin’s fur as he desperately tried to keep his face above water. He felt a sharp tug at the rope around his waist.

“ _Wait!_ ” he cried, even as his strength began to fail. “I almost have him!” 

Though the frigidity acted like a vise around his chest, Bilbo took as deep a breath as he could before he began to sink. While it stung at his eyes, the cold water numbed the pain in his shoulder as he worked to wrap the rest of the rope around the wolf's torso. Dwalin continued to claw at him in frantic swipes to his upper body, but the Hobbit barely felt it. He tied off the loop just as his usually-nimble fingers became too cumbersome to move.

Once again, Bilbo ineffectually tried to kick toward the surface, but it was no use. Not even adrenaline could make up for a lifelong Hobbitish refusal of learning how to swim. Unable to take the burn in his lungs any longer, he exhaled his last bit of air. While his vision fuzzed around the edges, a burst of small white bubbles invaded his featureless bluish-gray field of view, his breath finally leaving him for good.

There was a hard yank around his midsection.

Bilbo sucked in a painful breath as his head broke the surface. He was hauled up onto the ice by the rope, the dark lump of the wolf’s body soon following him. Feeling like he had swallowed needles, Bilbo let himself be dragged along until his body finally met the solid edge of the pond. His vision swam, the strain on Thorin’s face only barely resolving itself before the Dwarf dropped the rope and collapsed backward out of Bilbo's immediate sight. 

His eyes slipped shut. He thought he heard the wolf whine behind him, but that might just have been the ringing in his ears.

Two blazing coals suddenly cupped themselves around Bilbo’s cheeks. He cringed away from them, the feeling indescribably painful. However, they held firm, and even moved to shake him in a manner that was rougher than he would have liked.

“—ilbo! Look at me, _Ghivashel_. I swear, if you die, I am going to _strangle you_ —”

Bilbo cracked open a heavy eyelid and coughed. 

“Thorin?”

“Thank Mahal,” Thorin breathed, moving one of his hot hands away from Bilbo’s cheek to brush his sopping curls away from his forehead.

Bilbo coughed again, and this time water dribbled out from between his lips. “Is Dwalin…?”

“He’s alive, safe, thanks to you,” Thorin replied, the words tinged with awe.

“Oh good.” A brittle smile crossed Bilbo’s lips. “Now that’s settled, I’d like to go back to sleep now.”

“No, Bilbo, you can’t—”

“Just for a little bit,” Bilbo slurred. His whole body felt like lead. 

“— _vashel_ , Bilbo. Bilbo!”

Bilbo let his eyes slip closed.

***

* * *

He woke up slowly, feeling like his throat and chest were on fire. Groaning, he buried his face even deeper into the furry body in front of him. He squirmed uncomfortably under the arm wrapped tightly over his torso.

“How are you feeling?” a voice rumbled from behind.

“Bad,” Bilbo croaked. “Hot.”

“Bad and hot is better than dead,” said Thorin.

Bilbo moaned. “I _feel_ pretty dead."

Thorin chuckled humorlessly. Bilbo opened his eyes, blinking away the blurriness as he took stock of his surroundings. They were back under the outcropping, the fire blazing high and hot in front of them. The Dwarf was pressed up tightly against his back, but Bilbo was completely swaddled in the thick fur cloak, with only the top half of his head exposed. 

He shifted, only vaguely registering that Thorin had stripped him down to his underclothes. While that normally would have made him want to die of embarrassment, Bilbo was simply far too exhausted, and far more focused on the wolf dozing in front of him to care. He stilled, watching the steady rise and fall of Dwalin's furry back.

“How is he?” Bilbo whispered.

“He’ll be fine,” sighed Thorin, tightening his arm around Bilbo. “It seems like he got his foot caught in something, but it’s nothing serious. He's strong. I’m more worried about you.”

Bilbo frowned, unsure if he should be offended or not. Ignoring the prince for the moment, he tentatively reached out to card a hand through Dwalin’s fur, growing more confident as the wolf sighed contentedly in its sleep. It was impossibly soft in a way that made Bilbo want to bury his face in it, even if he did currently smell like wet dog. The sky was the light gray of early morning twilight behind him.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving soon,” the Hobbit murmured, changing the subject.

“What I wouldn’t give...” Thorin trailed off, spitting out a guttural curse. “This can’t go on any longer. I nearly lost _everything_ tonight, and now I—”

He cut himself off, freezing as the wolf snuffled itself awake. It opened up one steel gray eye and lifted its head. Leaning close to Bilbo, Dwalin took a long sniff before setting its head down on his paws with pitiful whine. Ears folded back, the wolf looked at Bilbo with the sorriest gaze he had ever seen on an animal. 

The Hobbit held his breath as he tentatively reached his hand out. Dwalin snuffled at it before pressing his snout into Bilbo’s palm. The wolf gave it a quick lick. 

Bilbo felt his heart break. He let out a short sob and wriggled his arms out of the cloak. He scooted forward, burying his face into the scruff of the wolf’s neck with a full body shudder.

Thorin sucked in a sharp breath. He pressed up behind Bilbo, effectively sandwiching the Hobbit between himself and the wolf even as Bilbo continued to tremble. The relief that they were there, together, _alive_ , washed over him like a tidal wave. 

It abruptly occurred to him just how far he was willing to go, what he was willing to sacrifice for the both of them. With that realization came a mantra, repeating itself with the steadiness of a marching cadence despite its increasing volume in Bilbo's mind.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

The first rays of the morning sun broke over the horizon. Thorin wheezed like he had just been stabbed.

“It’s happening,” he growled through grit teeth.

Bilbo’s eyes grew wide as a warm golden glow suffused their small hideaway. The wolf’s form shimmered in front of him, flickering for a few long seconds between canine and Dwarf before it finally stabilized into Dwalin’s familiar shape. Ringed in a halo of gold, Dwalin stared at them, openmouthed. His gaze flickered briefly to Bilbo before focusing on the Dwarf behind him. His eyes went round, and he reached out his hand.

“Thorin,” he breathed.

Thorin reached out his hand as well, his long harpist's fingers stretching for Dwalin's own over Bilbo's head.

“ _Khebabmudtu_ ," he sobbed.

Then there was a blinding flash, and then the space behind Bilbo suddenly felt very empty. Dwalin’s face crumpled. His hand formed into a hard fist, and he pounded the stone with the roar of a wounded animal. 

The raven cawed, heedlessly hopping past the both of them in order to greet the day. He took off once he escaped the outcropping, wheeling around in the air without a care in the world. Bilbo scrubbed hard at his eyes as he tracked its progress, feeling like he had just been ripped open and had his insides rearranged. 

Shaking his head, he turned his gaze back to Dwalin, who was looking at him with a glare that could have killed. Though the Dwarf tried to remain stoic, his tone was strained, terse in a way that utterly betrayed how gutted he must have felt. 

“What happened," he demanded.

Bilbo looked down at the ground, anxiously knotting his fingers together. “You came back during the night. You were limping. We thought you were really hurt, but now I think you were just scared and needed to see Thorin. You tried to walk across the pond and fell through the ice.”

“Ugh, no wonder I feel like the backside of a troll,” Dwalin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He didn’t jump in after me, did he? Bloody idiot.”

He propped himself up on his elbow, seeming completely unconcerned with his nakedness. A shallow gash marked the length of Dwalin’s left forearm down to his palm, but it had already partially scabbed over. Geometric tattoos much like the ones on his scalp and knuckles covered his well defined, hairy chest. Bilbo kept his gaze trained on a spot just past the Dwarf’s shoulder, not knowing what he would do if he accidentally got an eyeful. 

“He tried, but I stopped him,” the Hobbit replied.

Dwalin arched a questioning brow. “How did I get out then?”

“I…" Bilbo took a deep breath, shaking his head. " _I_ was the one who jumped in after you.”

Dwalin’s eyes bulged. He sat up a bit straighter. Though his expression was more open than Bilbo had ever seen, it only spoke of panic.

“But you can’t swim!” the Dwarf protested.

His frantic gaze roved over Bilbo’s face, as if to take stock of every possible minute difference from the previous evening. Eyes traveling downward, he zeroed in on the scratches peeking out from beneath the heavy fabric loosely draped over Bilbo’s shoulder. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he reached out to yank the cloak away from Bilbo’s chest. 

The Dwarf stared. Dwalin’s face went ghostly pale, and he snatched his hands back like he had been burned. His adam's apple bobbed furiously as words appeared to catch themselves in his throat and stick there. He finally managed to force out a reply, sounding somewhat like he was on the verge of drowning once again.

“I should shave my beard for this," he choked.

Bilbo looked down at his chest and blinked in surprise. Claw marks raked across almost the entirety of his torso; his skin was positively littered with angry red welts. There were even a few on his legs and forearms, now that he was properly taking stock of the damage. However, most of them seemed to be superficial, and only a select few had actually been deep enough to break skin in any appreciable manner. He went to lay a gentle hand on Dwalin’s arm, but the Dwarf flinched from his touch.

“It’s fine,” Bilbo quietly replied. “You were just scared. You didn't know any better."

Dwalin stared at his hands, which had started to shake. 

“ _You could have died!_ ” he cried, rounding on Bilbo even as he buried his face in his palms. “I could have dragged you down, or worse, _mauled_ you… Mahal…”

“But you didn’t,” the Hobbit tried to interject.

Dwalin continued as if he hadn’t heard him, moaning wretchedly, “You must have been so frightened.” The ‘ _of me’_ was silent, but heavily implied.

Bilbo's mouth fell open. Incredulous, he reached up to wrench one of Dwalin’s hands away from his face. Dwalin grimaced and tried to yank it back, but Bilbo held firm, clasping the Dwarf’s huge hand between his own soft palms.

"No! Of course I wasn't frightened!” he exclaimed, looking straight into Dwalin's wide-eyed gaze. “Or, er, I _was_ , but not of you. Never of you. But of you dying, of me losing one of my… one of my best friends, then yes. I was frightened to death.”

“But the ice… and the wolf." Dwalin’s gruff voice broke slightly.

Bilbo’s brows drew down toward the center of his face. “What about them?”

“It didn’t… trigger anything?” 

Bilbo balked, rearing back in shock at the words that so tentatively tripped out of the warrior's mouth.

“What? No, of course not,” he said. "Why in the world would you think that?”

Dwalin merely leveled him with a disbelieving stare. Bilbo’s mind reeled in confusion for a moment, until realization finally clicked itself into place.

“Oh my stars,” he breathed. “Is that why you disappear every night? Because you think I’m _afraid_ of you?”

Dwalin ducked his gaze, glowering at a rock near Bilbo’s knee like he was willing it to spontaneously combust. “Thorin left me a note about what happened that first night, and then after that story you told me—”

“You absolute _dolt!_ ” Bilbo interrupted him, suddenly absolutely _furious_. “Of course I was scared of you that first night. I didn’t have any clue what was going on! And yes, wolves may have killed my mother, but they weren’t _you_. I’m middle-aged for Yavanna’s sake! I can tell the difference. _You_ would never hurt me.”

Dwalin shot a sharp look at Bilbo’s mangled chest.

“Not on purpose,” he quickly amended.

Dwalin’s forehead wrinkled slightly, as if he didn’t have the heart to fully believe Bilbo, no matter how much he wanted to. Heaving a tremendous sigh, he rolled to his feet and reached for Thorin’s trousers, which were just the slightest bit loose on him. Bilbo absolutely did _not_ look as he bent to pull them on, turning his gaze back toward the Dwarf just in time to see him walking toward the pond. He paused at the edge of it and put his hands on his hips, bare feet buried in the snow as he surveyed the damage of the night before. 

Bilbo found his own trousers, which had survived the night relatively unscathed. His coat was a different story, so he shucked it aside in favor of just wrapping his bare torso in the cloak. He stepped out to stand beside Dwalin, companionably bumping his upper arm with his shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, voice quiet.

“I’m thinking this needs to end,” Dwalin replied, unknowingly echoing Thorin’s sentiment from earlier.

“We’re almost there,” said Bilbo, successfully masking his regret. “You’ll be home soon enough. Then you and Thorin can see each other again, and this will all be over.”

Dwalin shot him a fond look. It was the sort of thing Bilbo wished he could bottle and take with him everywhere. 

“Aye. I suppose you’re right,” he said softly.

“I’m always right,” Bilbo sniffed.

The Dwarf sighed. “Don’t—”

“—push it, Baggins,” Bilbo finished with a wan grin. “Yes, I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation notes:
> 
> Do we even really need translation notes? I think we all know what Ghivashel means.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Next update might be slow as well, my little tumbleweed lifestyle will probably take me into remote parts that don't have outlets or internet in the next week or two. However, I'll try and write as much as I can :^) I'm still shocked at the positive response to this dumb fic, so thank you again for that!!! You're all wonderful. Next chapter will probably be the last chapter of ~plot~ if I can be concise about it, and then after that...a very special epilogue lol.
> 
> [[soundtrack](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1KBDQ6QPwKpDJR7ZvsxlYO?si=Hr2lKMbfTIaj8dtFZun38g)] [[personal blog](http://knife-em0ji.tumblr.com)] [[lotr/fanfic blog](http://nazghoulz.tumblr.com)]


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